


Take to the Sky

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Doctors & Physicians, M/M, Minor Character Death Mentioned, Romance, mention of illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a sexual scandal of significant proportions, Prince Arthur is compelled to go on best behaviour mode to appease both his father and the press. A visit to a humanitarian-aid organisation camp seems like the perfect measure to divert attention from Arthur's recent past and a good way to effectively show off his caring side. At the camp, Prince Arthur meets Merlin Emrys, a committed doctor who doesn't much care about Arthur's royal aura of fame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take to the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctoraicha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctoraicha/gifts).



> Dear doctoraicha, I wish you the best holiday season ever and I hope you enjoy this. After reading your prompts, I went for a royalty AU that's a start of a relationship story. I think a couple of New Years' celebrations might have ended up in there.  
> (ii) This was beta'd by the lovely c. I also had some help from the equally lovely l. My thanks also go to k for the cheerleading.  
> (iii) The title is from the song Merlin mentions: Summertime

“Tell me why it was necessary to make this stop?” Arthur says, forking his sunglasses as he prepares to go down the stairs, the glare of the sun hitting the reflexive lenses of his sunnies.

After having politely bid goodbye to the pilot, Leon follows him on the way down. “Because there are photos of you engaged in a threesome doing the rounds of the international press.”

Arthur adopts a suitable expression for a state visit, for the benefit of those members of the press who are snapping photos of him as he descends the plane's stairs, people from the same kind of media that's lambasting him both in print and on video. “I thought they got the gag.”

“In Britain,” Leon says grimly from behind him, his briefcase thumping against the the stairs' metal rail. “Ireland has been kind enough to pass too. But since this happened on American soil...”

“The Americans have published the pictures,” Arthur says through gritted teeth as he clears the plane and puts foot on Sierra Leone soil.

“And the French and the Italians,” Leon murmurs before shutting up as they reach the line of Sierra Leone officials come to greet them.

For the next ten minutes Arthur dutifully shakes hands with Sierra Leone diplomats, wearing the composed, attentive expression his father told him to adopt when trying to make people forget a misdeed. As he works his way down the line of government personnel making up his welcome committee, Arthur strives to listen to what they have to say to him, even though his thoughts strain to go elsewhere.

He nods politely, passes a few apt comments, and then makes his way towards baggage claim, flanked by two burly bodyguards. It's only when he's in the back of a government car making it towards the embassy that he and Leon reprise their conversation.

“Let's say I understand coming here,” Arthur says, shifting when his sweaty shirt threatens to stick to the leather of the seats. “Diplomatically it makes sense. But why visit the DA camp?”

Leon's mouth twists sideways. “Because it's a new British humanitarian association aiming to cover those areas MSF can't.”

“Yes, I understand that part,” Arthur says, readjusting himself for the second time. “What I don't see is the necessity of driving all the way to the middle of nowhere to see one of their camps in action when I'm sure I could have signed a few cheques and called it a day. My presence is going to be beneficial to none, a hindrance more likely.”

Leon looks out the window, though Arthur's sure it's not the motorway that he's looking at. “Because charitable actions are expected of you.”

“I know,” Arthur says, not likely to forget that that is indeed part of his duties. “But what can I do to help a bunch of doctors that doesn't include signing on the dotted line?”

“Yes, well, privately I agree,” Leon concedes, expelling a sigh. “But if you're seen going out of your way to take an interest... it'll look good in the press.”

Arthur closes his eyes even from behind his glasses. They don't provide enough shade anyway. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Silence washes over him, only the powerful rumble of the engine interrupting it.

“Your Highness.”

“Yes?” Arthur asks in a tired voice. He can't sleep on planes and he was hoping he could get a measure of shut eye now, until at least he has to put on a poker face for the world.

“You'll see,” Leon says, “it'll be for the best.”

Arthur doesn't think so. “Yes, you're very good at your job, Leon.”

The car journey is too short for him to catch a nap. As soon as he's out of the car he's whisked to the ambassador's residence where he's assigned a luxurious suite of rooms overlooking a garden. Arthur doesn't bother checking the view out. He has no doubt it'll be like many such views: breathtaking, but nothing that Arthur hasn't seen before.

What he doesn’t seem to have seen before, at least this week, is a bed. What with flying over back to England and talking to lawyers for damage control he hasn't slept more than ten hours in seven days. Sprawling on top of the covers, he manages to squeeze in one more before an attendant wakes him to warn him that it's six and nearly time for the party.

Arthur dresses as meticulously as at other times for other parties even though today of all days he wants for nothing more than to find his way back to bed. Clad in an evening jacket, white cotton shirt, and dark bow-tie, Arthur is ushered into a car and driven to the presidential palace.

A flock of hired waiters making way for him, a duo of bodyguards either side of him, he enters the building, where he's greeted by the President himself. A warm handshake and polite words make him feel less unwelcome than before, even though he still senses he's being part of a farce, one of which he's the lead cast member.

The President takes the dais to say, “Our two nations, two Commonwealth partners, share a long and close friendship, let us therefore welcome His Highness among our people.”

A long applause crackles in the air; Arthur slips a finger between the string of his bow tie and his shirt.

Profiting from a passing waiter, Arthur picks up a glass of champagne and empties it into his mouth. He ducks his head for as long as the applause lasts. When it's over he says a few words about mutual respect and friendship between the two countries, only to be released to the joys of the party once his contribution to the success of the evening has been noted.

Though Arthur has very little inclination to show off, he accepts the pair of drumsticks offered him by the band leader playing this evening. Hands sweaty, tongue clogging his mouth it feels so dry, he sits behind a pair of tall drums. He doesn't have a musical bone in his body but even so he joins the drummers beating out a rhythm. He gets an ovation, a polite one given the premises, but one that he doesn't deserve in the least any way. When this second demonstration of approval ceases, he cedes his drumsticks in favour of another glass of bubbly champagne that tickles his throat.

He's once again alone when an old gentleman approaches him, with Leon in the wings. Leon tips his eyebrows up, clearly suggesting Arthur pay attention to the man. The old gentleman looks like an eccentric type: while he's in formal evening wear, he's eschewed wearing either tie or bow tie. His hair, pristinely white with a note of burnished yellow to it, is pulled back into a ponytail. “This is Mr Gaius Paterson, the admin at DA. He wants to speak to you about your upcoming visit.”

“Ah, yes, nice to meet you,” says Arthur, shaking the old man's hand. “I'm looking forward to my visit.”

“And I'm sure we're looking forward to the publicity your visit will stir,” Mr Paterson says, sounding more cynical than Arthur would have given him credit for, given his job.

“Yes, I hope that'll work out for you.”

“Is there anything in particular you'd like to see tomorrow?” Dr Paterson asks, his head tilted, indicating he's ready to listen.

Arthur has no idea of what normally goes on in a DA camp, so he can't really answer that question. “I'll only be there for a few hours; I wouldn't want to disrupt your regular schedule.”

“The group was hoping to leave a good and lasting impression,” Dr Paterson says. “But if you're okay with a generic visit then my team will provide one, maybe give you a highlights tour.”

Arthur can't put his finger on why, but he feels like he's just been rebuked. However he behaves as if the sting hasn't registered at all. “That will be a pleasure.”

Gaius tilts his head in acceptance. They exchange a few more words before a veil of tiredness descends on Arthur. Leon notices and gets him alone for a while until Arthur needs to get back into the fray. He dances with the President's wife, who compliments him on looking dashing, and with another lady from the Presidential administration. She flirts with him in that subtle way of diplomats the world over, enough to flatter, not enough to be called out upon.

After that he's really incapable of coherency. Leon is to attuned enough to his moods to catch that and escort him back to his car.

The night ends in a blur with Arthur burying his face in his pillow and blacking out.

 

**** 

“Your Highness,” a voice comes floating out of the darkness. “You're highness, it's time.”

Arthur chases the obscurity of his dreams, the soft cocoon embracing his body. “Go away,” he mumbles, frowning at the entity that wants to tear him away from the blessed land of no thought and utter relaxation.

“Sir.” As the voice persists, Arthur recognises it as Leon's. “We've got to get moving. The camp visit's today.”

Arthur mumbles something that means most assuredly nothing.

Leon's voice resonates closer. “Sir, I have a mug of coffee here for you.”

As if to prove Leon correct the aroma of coffee scents the air. With it wakefulness comes, and the understanding he must move. Arthur sits up in bed. “Right, the camp visit.” He squeezes his nose up where the bridge of it curves into bone.

“Here,” Leon says, handing him a blue mug full of tepid black coffee. “Drink this. Your driver's waiting.”

The camp, they tell him, is in the interior, a long way from Sierra Leone's capital. As not all the roads are new or paved, an early start is warranted. Arthur ducks into the car and scarcely heeds the urban environment.

Once they leave Freetown behind though, Arthur gets a thorough taste of nature, unfolding as it does on both sides of the road, flat land covered in scrub and dotted with palms and shrubs giving way to denser, lusher vegetation. As the land rises, a veritable explosion of greenery meets the eye. A bird with striking blue plumage cleaves the sky.

It's both beautiful and a far cry from what Arthur, despite his intensive travelling, is used to.

Leon must have twigged on to what Arthur's thinking because he says, “Definitely not London.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, his skin vibrating with a sense of both displacement and longing for the unknown. “It isn't.”

The camp is a sprawling enclave that rises abruptly in the middle of nowhere, temporary constructions sprouting from the dusty ground. Tin sheeting, weighed down by stones, blankets some of the most improvised buildings. Others, though, look much more permanent, low bungalows sporting fresh paint and flat roofs, siding one against the other in orderly rows. Overall there's a certain neatness to the lanes and squares, a sense of order to the chaos.

The armoured Range Rover that conveys Arthur stops in the middle of one of these squares, underneath the shadow of a tree whose branches sprawl out. The driver opens Arthur's door for him, giving him time to step out at his own leisure. The transition from the air-conditioned atmosphere of the car to the sweltering midday sun is a shock to Arthur's system.

When he takes a step, heat envelopes him. Dust rises and chokes him, causing his sand-clogged eyes to pour tears he has to dab at.

He isn't the only one to suffer from the weather conditions. Old people, sitting cross-legged on the ground, fan themselves with large leaves belonging to plants whose species Arthur can't guess at. The only ones completely unaffected by the weather are children; they run to him, gathering round him. A small one tugs at his trousers leg and says something in a language Arthur doesn't understand but wildly guesses to be either Kono or Mende.

An older child translates, saying, “He's asking if you're a real prince.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, trying to sound as kind and down to earth as he can even if he knows the first child won't probably understand the nuances he's attempting to give his tone.

“Cool,” says the older child, translating for the younger one.

“Children,” a tall man advancing on them says, “leave His Highness alone.”

Arthur turns towards the new comer, guessing him to be one of the camp runners. “There's no need. We were just saying hi.”

The kids scatter.

The camp administrator smiles and extends a hand to him. “Amadu Manyeh, Your Highness. I'm the Camp Manager.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Arthur, exchanging a firm handshake with the man.

Leon and bodyguards falling behind, Mr Manyeh spins around and starts giving him a tour of the place. “The *** Camp has been in place for years and we've always done rather well. There's water and electricity, a school and an infirmary. Since DA came though there's been an improvement in several areas.”

As he shows him around, Manyeh gives Arthur the run down on the camp. “The provision of adequate sanitation services is crucial to prevent communicable diseases and epidemics and DA have helped with that.”

“I see,” says Arthur, willing to retain the data supplied to him but not sure his memory will do the job.

Manyeh points out a building to him. “Showers, latrines.”

“They seem solidly built.”

“Yes, indeed,” Manyeh agrees. “They were erected by locals with the help of DA. Did you know that cholera rates are four times lover now that we have those buildings?”

“That sounds like great news,” Arthur says, following Manyeh in the direction of a series of low constructions attached one to the other.

“We also provide housing for ex refugees.” Manyeh waves at the buildings Arthur spotted. “The houses have ventilation and windows, but we need more mosquito nets.”

“To fight malaria, right?” Arthur is no doctor but he thinks he's not far off the mark with his question.

“Yes, exactly.” Manyeh takes a sharp turn to the left. “About that. There's something else I want to show you.”

Manyeh leads Arthur (Leon and bodyguards following at a distance) to another square parallel to the one they parked the car in. At the dead centre two tables have been set up, two men sitting behind them. A snaking queue has formed before each table.

Arthur takes a step closer. “They're vaccinating,” he says as he zeroes in on a young doctor, all dark hair and cheekbones, injecting people.

“Yes, Dr Emrys is administering the Yellow Fever fever vaccine and Dr May the one against Malaria,” Manyeh explains to him, pointing to each doctor in turn. “You don't know how invaluable inoculation is.”

“Yes, I understand it must be,” says Arthur, rooted to the spot, the scene much more interesting to him than the ones that went before because people are involved, not just man-made things. “I want to watch this.”

“Of course,” Manyeh says, with some stuttered hesitation. “You'll probably get a fairer idea of what we do on a day to day, month to month basis if you do.”

Dr Emrys injects a child. At the sound of a sniffle he ruffles the kid's hair and starts talking to her. By and by the child smiles. The queue moves on but Dr Emrys, while quick and efficient, has a word for everyone.

His colleague is as efficient as him, treating patient after patient, but Emrys is the one who emotes the most, who addresses his patients, talks with them, makes the little ones laugh. “What's he saying?” Arthur asks, when taking a step closer, he realises he can't understand what Dr Emrys is saying because he's speaking in a language Arthur doesn't know.

“Explaining what the vaccine is and what it's going to do,” Mr Manyeh says, clearing matters up in his turn. “It's really essential. To reassure people as to the stats and long term effect of vaccinations. Knowledge is at the basis of this entire process. The more the inoculation process is understood the better. The more people take vaccine the better. That's the only way to fight diseases.”

“I understand,” Arthur says, moving closer yet.

“Would you like to see the new equipment that's just been sent to us?” Manyeh asks, craning his head at another edifice that looms far away in the background. “Having labs allows us to run tests and—”

“I'd love to have a few words with Dr Emrys,” Arthur says, watching as Emrys vaccinates a family of four. “Understand the nature of his work here. If I'm not interrupting?”

“Oh, of course,” Manyeh says, sounding a little surprised, the edge of a gasp rounding off his words. “You can ask him a few questions now. I'm sure we can get him to talk to you more expansively later.”

“That'd be perfect, thank you.”

Feeling as though his feet weigh a ton, like a fish straying on shore, Arthur moves forward. He can see his shadow engulf Doctor Emrys. He clears his throat. Dr Emrys continues with his work and Arthur's heart skips a beat. He wonders whether it's the awkwardness of being ignored – a first for him, unless it's to do with Uther – or the effect of taking in Dr Emrys' dark blue eyes from up close.

In the lull between patients Dr Emrys looks up. His eyes narrow in recognition but don't widen. Arthur's used to seeing people's expressions change when they recognise him; he's used to the curiosity, the awe that comes with it. He detects recognition in Dr Emrys, but there's no trace of awe.

If anything his mouth purses and narrows with annoyance. “Prince Arthur,” the doctor says, holding out hands that are encased in sterile gloves to indicate he can't treat Arthur to a handshake.

Even though Dr Emrys addressed him incorrectly, Arthur doesn't bother to point this out, though he can see Leon wants to. Instead he says, “I see you've got your work cut out for you. How long have you been at it?”

Dr Emrys squints pensively. “Some time before dawn. I don't do watches. They're no use here.”

“I see and...” Sensing the need for it as if he's under the spotlight, Arthur fishes for a good question. “And how many more people will you vaccine today?”

Dr Emrys' lips twist. “As many as turn up.”

“Does the disease have a high incidence?” This is surely a question sure to be welcome to a doctor.

“You had to get vaccinated to enter the country, didn't you?” Dr Emrys says, rolling his eyes. “It means that, yeah, incidence is high. Fortunately there's a vaccine for Yellow Fever, unlike for Dengue or Lassa.”

Arthur swallows, the magnitude and gravity of the concept, the fear of illnesses there's no cure for nearly silencing him. “Will these patients require booster shots?”

“A booster dose is recommended every 10 years, yes,” Dr Emrys says, sounding more alert, more interested than he was before, when he was supplying Arthur with stock answers. “A recent World Health Organization's report says that a single Yellow Fever vaccination is sufficient for immunity against it, which is very important for people like us, in scheduling vaccines, see.”

“I see.”

Dr Emrys is on a roll now. “We already do a lot of scheduling,” he says, his eyes shining with interest, his voice filling with passion, an interest that isn't directed at Arthur at all. “For example some components of the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccines are negatively affected when the vaccines are administered at the same time. We can prevent this from happening by simply distancing the shots. A month interval will do the trick.”

“I had no idea,” Arthur says, developing a brand new respect for the knowledge these doctors have. On a surface level he has always known that doctors study hard to get where they are, but these little material examples leave more of a mark on him than degrees and pedigrees do.

“Yes, well,” says Dr Emrys, eyeing the young woman behind Arthur. “Those are the basics of our activity here, the ABC.” The doctor waves the girl forward, breaking open the plastic bag containing the inoculation kit. “Now if you'll excuse me, um, sir.”

Arthur chuckles at Dr Emrys' tone, but steps back, obeying mutely, something that doesn't happen to him every day.

Mr Manyeh uses the opportunity to get a hold of him again. “Let me show you the labs,” he says, with an accompanying gesture.

“Yes, I'd love that,” Arthur says, then since he's not new at dealing with charitable projects, he asks, “What about sustainability?”

“We'll continue here for years to come,” Manyeh says, slipping a key into the lock of the lab building. “But over the long term, it is up to the governments to lead on improving health care, and aid agencies as well.”

“What about charity groups?” Arthur asks, following Manyeh down a corridor. “Promotional campaigns to sensitise people? Donations?”

“Those always help.”

Arthur nods to himself. “There shall be donations and I'll promote your campaign in the press.” After all, snoops are likely to be wanting a word with him about the scandal; what better way to turn something stupid and frivolous into something useful?

“That would be lovely.” Manyeh switches on the lights in a room in which several items of technical equipment are assembled. “People are more keen to listen when a famous person speaks out.”

“Sad state of things,” Arthur says, the commentary not far from what he thinks of the ghouls that feed off his private life.

Probably sensing that the subject irritates Arthur, Manyeh lays it off. He launches into a description of the equipment they have in terrifying detail, bringing up numbers, statistics, as well as modes of use.

Rain, which starts with an abrupt pitter patter that turns into constant drumming, mostly drowns him out, so Arthur doesn't have to latch onto every single word he doesn't understand.

Lulled by the cadence of Manyeh's words, Arthur finds himself looking out the window, striated with water droplets, wondering if Dr Emrys has broken off his vaccine session or if he's continuing with it in spite of the down-pour.

“And this is our new electrophoresis machine...”

 

***** 

The room he's in is square and has brown walls. It has no sofa, but chairs. Arthur sits on the edge of one, his hands folded together, his body bent over his knees.

The door creaks open. Arthur's eyes focus on large feet encased in muddy trainers. His gaze inches upwards to find jeans, wet with water stains that expand like a Rorschach test. Looking further up, Arthur encounters sharp cheekbones droplets are clinging to, eyes blue like a storm, a face daubed with dirt, and unbrushed hair that shines with a sheen given to it by the water.

“Dr Emrys, has the weather got the better of you?” Arthur asks, spitting out what he really thinks rather than what he should say, has been trained to say.

“No, okay, maybe yes,” Dr Emrys says, casting his eyes upwards. “Frankly I was told I had to babysit Britain's future monarch now that he's been forced here by what is horrible but not unusual weather.

Once again Arthur starts speaking before he's thought it through. “I see, this is an indictment against me for being a terrible example of what a royal should be.”

Dr Emrys' eyebrow pushes up while his mouth slowly falls open. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” After a pause he pastes on a, “Sir,” that isn't deferential and has no ring of conviction to it.

“The threesome,” Arthur blurts out. Only when Emrys cups his mouth with his hand does Arthur realise that Emrys doesn't know about it.

“The threesome,” Emrys repeats, his voice getting the cadence of a question, the burr of laughter underneath.

“Of course you don't get papers here.”

“Actually,” Dr Emrys corrects him. “We do. We drive out to Bo and Kenema at least once a week. It's just that, well, I wouldn't go looking for gossips magazines.”

“Of course not,” Arthur says, biting his tongue until he stings a bit, almost enough to make him forget how wrong footed he feels. “Because you'd only read about politics and medicine and--”

“Now who's making assumptions?” Dr Emrys asks, facial muscles twitching with amusement. “I actually love lampoons.”

“Lampoons?”

“Yeah, I get sent copies of the Harvard Lampoons Journal by a colleague who graduated there,” Dr Emrys says, his eyes shining again like they did when he was talking about vaccines. “They did a mean Twilight one.”

Arthur laughs. It comes from deep within his chest and vibrates in his ribcage. Here he was, expecting to be put on the spot for actions he's becoming less and less proud of, and here Dr Emrys is talking about things that make no sense. “Twilight?”

“Yes,” Dr Emrys says. “That's the novel about vampires.”

“I know what it is.”

“You know what it is, of course.” Dr Emrys bobs his head.

“So you have a rebel side to you that's not all that serious?” Arthur asks. “Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

“You thought I was in serious mode all the time?” Dr Emrys asks, passing a hand through hair that's wetly sticking together.

“No, I--”

“You thought I was here to talk to you about the camp and our need for donations and awareness campaigns?”

Arthur taps his shoes on the floor and looks away. “Yeah, that was what I was told you'd be doing.”

“Only if it really interests you,” Dr Emrys says, his hands moving to his hips. “If not I'd rather save my breath.”

“I didn't care,” Arthur says, catching Dr Emrys' eyes. “I mean I'm obviously aware of my privileged position and I would have signed a big cheque.”

Dr Emrys snorts, the smile dying on his lips, even though he was the one to invite this conversation.

“I did want to do good, but not in the way one is really supposed to,” Arthur continues, testing his ability to take responsibility even when it shames him. “With your heart, I suppose. I've changed my mind.”

“That fast?” It doesn't take a genius to sense the incredulity giving colour to Dr Emrys' tone.

“No, It's just that I came here focused on my own problems--”

“Involving threesomes?” Dr Emrys prods and probes even though the splash of red on his cheeks comes to encompass his whole face.

“I was just concentrating on my own concerns far too much and that perhaps reflects my selfishnes,” Arthur says, unable to define how much of a laughing stock, a fraud, he felt like when he arrived here for humanitarian reasons that weren't all that humanitarian to begin with.

“And seeing the camp brought on a sudden revelation?” The mobile upward tilt of Dr Emrys' eyebrows stands as evidence of his scepticism.

“No,” Arthur admits, probing his own feelings on the matter. “No. I had no big epiphany but I did see you meant it, what you were doing out there. Your focus. As sad as it sounds, it's not every day that people care more about their jobs than about me being there. I stop traffic.” He winces even as he says it.

“Poor you,” Dr Emrys says, and there's no trace of envy in his tone, of longing for the spotlight or that kind of power. He really means his words. “Must be sad.”

“Can't complain about being born 'lucky',” Arthur says, because that's not what he wants to talk about. “But I did believe in your commitment to DA.” He swallows though there's no need to, his mouth dry. “So, now, convince me to donate an insane amount.”

Merlin laughs, rubs at the tip of his nose and makes his way over to him, shaking his head. He takes a seat next to Arthur. “Okay, right, I'm not a great spokesperson.”

Arthur turns to face Dr Emrys. He cranes his head and says, “I don't know. I think you're selling yourself short.”

“So what do I talk about?” Dr Emrys says, inching his hands up his sodden jeans.

“Start with life at the camp.”

Dr Emrys' tale is very personal. He delivers no statistics, but displays all the enthusiasm, dedication, commitment and heartbreak of private experience. Fears and dreams, memories, a tale that's based on the heart: the years of study, graduating, deciding to make a difference, his first real time with DA, a two month period, coming back for more, and then getting here, making friends, contributing to the development of the camp. “It really was life-altering,” Dr Emrys reflects.

Arthur listens keenly to Emrys' tale, the story of his life etched on this camp, how he acclimatised, how he bore the loss of patients, of a friend and colleague due to Lassa, how he wakes up every day wanting to just do his part.

“You want to make a difference,” Arthur says slowly, making sense of Emrys' words.

“No,” Dr Emrys says, shaking his head. “That'd be the wrong attitude. That you alone are going to be so special as to change things. You're just not. It doesn't work like that.”

“Then I don't understand,” Arthur says, tongue twisting over his words. “Why would you try if you didn't think you can make a difference? Be useful?”

“You do it because you are useful and you are contributing,” Dr Emrys says, his eyes on Arthur as if he wants to communicate his thoughts by way of them. “You're just not a decisive factor.”

“I see,” says Arthur, though he isn't sure he understands this cog in the machine attitude. “It takes a lot of passion, I think, selflessness to be able to come to that.”

“I'm not as good a person as you think,” Emrys says, his voice slipping to a thread.

“And I'm not as bad a person as--” Arthur starts to be interrupted by Leon barging in, much less wet than Dr Emrys because he managed to remember to take an umbrella with him.

“Your Highness, we got radioed by Mr Paterson,” Leon says, propping his umbrella head down against the wall before going back to a ram-rod straight position. “He says the roads are flooded and there's no way he can make it to camp. This means we can't get out either.”

Arthur's gaze shifts to the window, the sheets of torrential rain darkening the day. “Of course. I should have seen this would affect our ability to go back.”

“You're fine with this?” Leon asks, eyebrows climbing before his expression settles again into his usual mask of even-temperedness.

“My ranting can't very well affect the weather.”

“Of course, sir,” says Leon, lifting his chin as if he's about to present arms at a military parade. “Mr Manyeh said that he would be able to find you some sort of proper accommodation.

“I don't doubt it,” Arthur says, though he knows he will have to get used to his quarters being very different from what he's accustomed to. “Tell him I thank him.”

“Very well, sir,” Leon says, going out again, umbrella speared forward, to go and relay Arthur's message.

At his side, Dr Emrys rises. “Well, I've got to go too,” he says, gesticulating at the door to signify the great outside. “The job calls.”

“It's been a pleasure,” Arthur says, standing to shake Emrys' hand.

Emrys takes it and flashes him a smile, the first smile he's directed at Arthur at all, an absolute corker of a smile. Before Arthur can actually register the softness of the pads of his fingers or the strength of them, Dr Emrys darts away, popping up the collar of his shirt, ducking and leaping out into the rain.

He leaves the door partially open after him.

 

*****

 

The room is small but not excessively so. The walls are bare but for posters and postcards. Two single beds in their metal frames stand opposite each other, snuggled up against their respective walls. There are two chests in lieu of cupboards and one window overlooks a rain lashed lane.

A single bulb dangling from the ceiling is the only light source, powerful enough to illuminate all corners and reveal damp stains. Because of a slight crack in the corner, the window allows a draft in. There's mould in a corner and mid-height to the left. Considering the general state of cleanliness of the room, Arthur ascribes its presence to the humidity factor that haunts the locale. Arsenal Posters hide the biggest stains, darkish tongues licking out from under them. One of them features Walcott sticking out his tongue as he lines up a kick; another is a group shot. Books are precariously piled on the sill. They're all dog-eared paperbacks whose spines show a variety of cracks along their length. Arthur takes note of the fact an awful lot of them are H. G. Wells novels. All these fixtures give the room a boys' dorm feel. Arthur's used to that. It reminds him of Eton.

“This is all we can do for you at such short notice,” says Mr Manyeh, standing next to him in the middle of the room. “Unless you'd prefer to lodge with me.”

“This is going to be more than fine,” Arthur says, nodding his head at his surroundings.

Mr Manyeh drops the keys in his hand. “Not that they work well at all or that there's any need for them here,” he says, “but these are the keys to the lodgings.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, fingers closing around the keys. “I hope I'm not inconveniencing someone.”

“One of the beds is unoccupied,” Mr Manyeh says in such a solemn tone Arthur believes there's a sad story behind the vacancy. “And I'm sure all of our doctors would be more than happy to accommodate you.”

Arthur has a suspicion that even if they weren't they would be brow beaten into ceding their bedding. Not that he wants to sleep in the car.

“One of your bodyguards can take the first bed,” Manyeh says, looking out the window to where Leon, Cador and Pellinore are. “We can perhaps get a trundle bed in here if you need to sleep with both of them.”

Arthur makes a sign no.

“In which case your second bodyguard can find a place with Mr Knight.”

With a twist of his lips Arthur's says, “Leon will rejoice.”

Manyeh is chuckling but his voice is drowned by the creaking of the door opening. Dr Emrys marches in, mouth open at sight of them. “Amadu, what's he doing here?”

“Oh, sorry, Merlin,” Manyeh says with a quick grimace that soon disappears. “His highness won't be able to reach Freetown tonight so--”

“So you're giving him my bedroom, I see,” Dr Emrys says, lowering his eyes, and slipping the shirt he must have untucked on his way to his lodgings back into his trousers. “Can I get my stuff at least?”

“Isn't one of the beds free?” Arthur says.

Dr Emrys takes a step forward. “Yes, but the other one's mine.”

“Merlin,” Mr Manyeh chides him.

“I have the solution for that,” Arthur says, “Cador gets to sleep elsewhere. In the car.”

“So you mean to dispose of your body guard as if he were chattel,” says Dr Emrys with more indignation than Arthur thinks possible for a person to express, especially after they've been granted their bed back.

“No!” Arthur says, explaining his meaning. “I mean for you to sleep in your bed tonight. It's not like Cador's saving lives tomorrow.”

Dr Emrys' hackles go down somewhat. “Isn't he supposed to save yours?”

“I don't think he'll be doing any saving tonight;” Arthur says, folding his arms. “No one's attacking me here.”

Dr Emrys crosses his arms likewise, either mocking him or mirroring him subconsciously. “Isn't anyone?”

“Well, no.”

The corners of Dr Emrys' lips tick up.

“I'll leave you to it, gentlemen,” says Manyeh, subtly retreating.

Now that he's gone Arthur sinks on the bed that looks free. The springs croak. He tips up his eyebrows but says nothing.

Emrys must have caught a whiff of his dissatisfaction because he says, “Not finding your new bed to your liking, princess on the pea?”

Arthur groans. “First,” he says admittedly rather pedantically, “it was called Princess and the Pea--”

“Sorry for messing with you childhood identification material,” Emrys says, undoing his shirt as he paces – and snorts.

Arthur follows him around with his eyes, watching the shirt sag open, revealing pale skin and a torso that, if not muscled, is lean and wiry. “And secondly,” Arthur makes himself go on, tearing his gaze away to focus on the floor, “you sounded too much like Gwaine there, so please stop.”

“Gwaine?” Emrys asks, unbuckling and slipping his belt out from his trousers. “Who's he? Someone from that threesome that got you stranded on this charitable experience?”

“I don't feel stranded,” Arthur points out with a huff. “And, no, you could say he's my oldest friend.”

Emrys' expression mellows into a smile. “Good,” he says, knocking his trainers off his feet and leaving them in the muddy puddle they rest in. “We all need a friend. Is he a po-- nobleman like you?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, leaning against the wall, “he's the son of the Earl of Arundel, but he doesn't use his courtesy tile, goes only by his family name and is always in some club or wandering the world.”

“You know some colourful types,” Dr Emrys says, pulling down his jeans, standing in boxers, an amused smile on his face.

Though he shouldn't, not after where his previous actions have landed him, Arthur looks. Under the guise of not doing so, Arthur watches Dr Emrys' long legs and surprisingly fit, lean body. At least he does until, with a rustle of sheets, Dr Emrys disappears under his blankets.

“Good night, Dr Emrys,” Arthur says, not moving, frozen to the spot, his blood tingling in his veins.

An amused burr sounds in Dr Emrys' voice as he says, “You can call me Merlin, sir.”

“Arthur,” Arthur says, turning around and lying down on the bed, his hands locked on his stomach. “You can call me Arthur.”

Merlin leans forward and flicks the light switch off, plunging the room in darkness. “Good night then, Arthur.”

The bed is horrible, lumpy in places, the mattress too thin in others, but that's not the reason Arthur can't sleep. It's not even the distracting sound of Merlin's breathing. Though Arthur's used to having a four poster to himself, he's not completely unused to sharing it that he should find the noises someone else makes in their sleep so distracting. If it wasn't for past lovers he'd be used to having company anyway. Back in boarding school no exceptions were made for royalty; he'd had to share just like anyone else.

So that's not why he can't sleep. And neither is it the sound of the rain crashing down and knocking against the panes that's making it impossible for him to surrender to slumber, nor is it the distracting dust motes dancing on a moonbeam.

He shifts and sighs, closes his eyes. Sleep doesn't come; only thoughts do. And while some of them are neutral, others are speculations about himself he doesn't want to entertain or welcome. Memories of his father; curt but angry words. His behaviour patterns clamour to be analysed too. He turns, eyes still firmly closed against the play of light in the room.

“I can hear you think,” Merlin says, his voice gauzy with sleep. “It's really, really loud.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Of all things I don't think _that_ is your fault,” Merlin's voice threads over the space between them. “Do you suffer from insomnia?”

“Not usually,” Arthur says, not wanting Merlin to go all doctor on him. “It's just... I haven't had the best couple of weeks.”

The springs of Merlin's mattress noisily quake as he moves, all rustle and flutter of sheets. “I'd have said you spent the best couple of weeks, I mean adventurous sex--”

“It's not all it's cracked up to be--”

“What, sex?” Merlin asks, voice low and trembling with good humour. “I think it is.”

Arthur clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Not if it's rote sex.”

“Rote sex?” Merlin asks, a disbelieving humorous tone to his voice. “Run that by me again?”

Arthur shifts once more, his knees going up so his feet rest flat on the bed. He stares at the ceiling. “Yeah, sometimes you...”

“You what?” asks Merlin, his eyes on Arthur, their blue depths shining clearly in the dark.

“You just have sex to have sex,” Arthur says, opening a hand and then closing it, trapping air. “To shake things up, without lust, or sympathy or...”

“Love,” Merlin finishes for him, word hurried and very nearly indistinct.

“That most of all was absent.” Arthur clamps his lips shut after that. He doesn't know why he said that. It's not as if he hasn't made an art of avoiding personal questions, knowing full well that even regular people are often ready to sell any titbit learnt from him. “Yeah, well. Forget I said that.”

“A bit hard to do at this point,” Merlin says, rolling on his side with a sigh of blankets. “But I'll trade you a confidence for a confidence; it's been so long since I had sex I'd take a no love, no strings deal.”

Heat works at Arthur's face and spreads around his insides. “Maybe I'd change my mind if I was in your situation.”

“Do royals get sex that regularly?” Merlin asks in a disbelieving tone.

Arthur doesn't answer.

“Well, that silence is ominous,” says Merlin in a jokey but quiet voice.

When Arthur continues with his silent routine, Merlin moves in a flurry of blankets and sheets and settles down. Before long he's properly snoring. Arthur can feel the space between them like a heavy blanket, both stifling and a haven.

He falls asleep not long after.

 

**** 

When he wakes the next morning, Dr Emrys has gone. His bed has been neatly remade and his clothes are no longer strewn around. It's as if he was never there but for a lingering scent in the air that's certainly not Arthur's.

With a shove of his blanket, Arthur gets up. Minus his shoes, he's still wearing yesterday's clothes and they smell more than a bit ripe.

He takes off his shirt and stays in his under-shirt. He's folding it when with a rap on the door Leon enters. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he says, looking even the worse for wear than Arthur, his curls in disarray, shirt and jacket creased. “I came to escort you to breakfast, sir.”

“I think I can be trusted to do that on my own,” Arthur says, passing a hand down his shirt, not at ease with it being so crumpled when he needs to appear in public.

“And to tell you that while the weather has improved--” Leon ticks his head at the window-- “the roads are still impassable and will be for a while.”

“That's all right,” Arthur says, sitting on his bed to put on his shoes. “We'll wait.”

Leon's eyebrows both climb; together with his mad bed hair, Leon looks quite funny. Arthur doesn't impart this piece of knowledge to him because he's not sure Leon has a sense of humour. A smile simply stretches his lips.

Breakfast is quick. Though he eats in the communal kitchen, the camp people give him space. On the one hand this is fine; it's hard to keep a public face on all the time. On the other he feels like some kind of circus spectacle, which wouldn't be happening if he had more than the silent Leon to eat with. His bodyguards keep flanking him without touching any food – they seem to have provided for themselves much earlier – and that too makes him squirm.

It sounds as though the sound of his spoon grating along his bowl is the loudest in the room.

Things pick up a bit in the afternoon. Cador throws a ball he finds lying in a shed around. After two exchanges with Pellinore, Arthur strips off his shirt and joins in. After a couple of half arsed attempts at 'scoring' which get shouted down as 'unfair', they lay down ground rules; they put down stones as goal posts and mark a line in the sand as a stand-in for the goal line.

When they see the new additions, a few children from the camp come running up, peeking, cheering on and taking sides. It's when Arthur invites them along for a second game that they form teams, Arthur being careful about getting both the keenest and youngest kids to play on his.

The sun, now out, bakes his neck, but he pursues the ball with great determination, passing it to the youngest kid on his team, who scores by feinting, Leon unable to catch the ball as it bypasses the goal line.

Someone claps and cheers, then says, “Can I join too?”

Arthur turns; Merlin's there, protecting his eyes against the glare of the sun, his sleeves rolled up, his shirt slipping out of his trousers. He looks like he already has had a tussle on the field, playful and keen.

Arthur smiles. “Sure, doc,” he says, waving him over, “but you'll have to find another team member to go with you. Even numbers.”

“I'll twist Mordred's arm and get him to play, no prob,” Merlin says, disappearing round a corner to reappear with a reluctant Dr May in tow.

“But I don't know how to, Merlin!” Dr May protests, walking apace with Merlin, hands held up. “I really can't.”

“Just kick the ball, Mordred,” Merlin says, highfiving Mustafa, the oldest kid on Cador's team.

While Mordred's a terrible player, Merlin is a stubborn one. He chases the ball, makes some good plays, skipping, jumping, scoring a couple of goals and serving a few sneaky little assists that help the kids score.

The kids for their part seem to love Merlin; they play around him, their aim seeming to be more getting noticed by him than putting a ball in the 'net'. They jump on him when they score; they celebrate his exploits, and look up to him, something that doesn't quite happen to Dr May.

Arthur has an inkling that this isn't just because May is basically losing them the match and more because you can't read his thoughts – happiness or disappointment – on his features like you can on Merlin's. With Merlin you get an instant flash of his feelings, a moment reading his face will get you there, and you want to be a part of them.

These kids certainly have a rapport with Merlin, one that materialises in the shape of cheers and back pats, which multiply the moment Merlin dribbles, feints and scores.

“Oh come on, Merlin,” Arthur says, both hands up in protest. “You have to give us a rematch.”

All of Arthur's team members join in the vocal request for one.

Merlin's eyes dance. “Okay, all right. We'll win again anyway.”

They have a second game, which Arthur's team wins by dint of determination and in spite of Dr May's attempts to mistake one, albeit imaginary, net for another. They call it quits when the sun goes down and dinner time comes along. The kids drop the ball and sprint for the kitchen.

Merlin smiles, his eyes disappearing in the wake of a multitude of crinkles. “I'm starving too,” he says, opening his shirt and wrapping it around his middle. “Let's go eat.”

Arthur follows his bounding figure as he jogs along a dust lane, then takes after him, leaving Cador, Pellinore and Leon behind.

He takes the same table he did in the morning but instead of eating alone in a chorus of silence Merlin comes to sit in front of him, putting down a tray laden with soup and roasted yams. “Dinner time,” he says, breaking some bread and dipping it into the soup. It's brown and hard around the edges, stale, but Merlin's method's solving that problem.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, watching Merlin spoon soup into his mouth. “I was a little hungry.”

“It was nice of you,” Merlin says, inhaling more of his soup. “Playing with the kids.”

“I know you think I'm some sort of aristocratic monster,” Arthur says, starting off on a tangent he doesn't quite know how to follow through. “But I'm not and... I quite like football.”

Merlin looks up, his eyes having a shine to them that is quite attractive. “I noticed. Now tell me, which team do you support?”

“Manchester United,” Arthur says, strong in his convictions.

Merlin splutters in outrage. “You have no real sense what football is.”

“Oh, I have,” Arthur says, his tone brimming with challenge. “One word: Rooney.”

Merlin shakes his head, fork half way to his mouth. “You still don't know what you're talking about. Wilshere is a far better player.”

Arthur starts laughing so hard the muscles in his belly hurt.

After dinner, which passes in a blur of traded insults with Merlin regarding their footie passion, Arthur retires to his temporary room. Merlin stays on to listen to one of the political refugees' poetry recital.

Having no knowledge of the language the poems are in, Arthur gives that a skip. Leon follows him into his lodging, insects humming in their wake, hidden in the foliage. “The weather's steadily improving,” he says, tipping his head up to look at the sky, stars shining bright up above. “We'll be able to leave tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know,” says Arthur, feeling no longing to go back, face more air travel, see his father. “I suppose it's back into the grind for me now, isn't it?”

“It'll be a more comfortable grind than this one,” Leon says, waggling his eyes at the door of the bungalow he shares with Merlin.

Arthur pushes the door open. “Good night, Leon.”

Arthur's sleeping by the time Merlin comes back. He only wakes because Merlin makes an awful lot of noise to get to bed. “Sorry,” Merlin says, stomping like he's recovering his balance after having tripped. “I didn't want to turn on the light and wake you but I ended up doing it all the same.”

Arthur grunts. “The light wouldn't have woken me.”

“Sorry again,” Merlin says, bed springs crying out when he sits down. “I was sure I would slip into bed noiselessly.”

“You would be a very bad ninja,” Arthur says, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Go back to sleep,” says Merlin in a kind, quiet whisper. “I promise I'll be like a mouse from now on.”

“Can't now,” says Arthur, sitting up. He punches the pillow behind him in an attempt to fatten it out. “I'm wide awake again.”

“Oh.” Merlin turns the light on. “Is there anything I can do?”

Short of prescription drugs, there's nothing Merlin can do, but Arthur says, “Talk to me.”

“Talk to you?” Merlin asks, as though the proposition is preposterous. “What about?”

“We did yesterday,” Arthur says, turning his head in Merlin's direction. “Talk to me...You can tell me about the poetry. Was it good?”

“I liked it.” Merlin nods to himself, getting his legs under him so he's sitting cross-legged on the bed. “It was about the natural rhythms of the land, dispossession, wandering. It was really touching.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there to listen,” says Arthur, even while knowing that, with the recitation taking place in Krio, he wouldn't have understood it at all.

“I could paraphrase,” Merlin says, his voice gentle, suited to the night time. “But I'm sure all meaning would be lost.”

“Yeah, and I'm certain you probably want to sleep.”

“I didn't say that to get out of telling you,” Merlin says, his hand curling around the edge of his mattress. “I don't have work tomorrow. I can stay up.”

“You shouldn't,” Arthur says, trying to find a position that will allow him to fall asleep and hence not bother Merlin. “You work a lot. You should sleep when you have a free day.”

“Why can't you?” Merlin asks, probing with a gentleness that Arthur doesn't perceive as prying. “I mean...”

“I have everything I could possibly want and my sleep should be blessed?” Arthur asks, with a note of sarcasm he doesn't want to inject to his tone but that just comes out. “Is that it?”

Merlin screws up his face, lines appearing on his brow, along with hollows in his cheeks as his mouth forms an O of protest. “No, I wasn't implying that. You've got to stop being paranoid about stuff like that.”

“Hard to do when your own father constantly criticises you,” Arthur says, meeting Merlin's eyes to get the point across. “There comes a point you just live on the defensive.”

“I'm sorry.” Merlin tugs at a thread belonging to the hem of his blanket. “I didn't mean to put you on the spot.”

“No,” Arthur says levelly. “I believe you. You don't like me but you meant well.”

Merlin chuckles. “Who said I didn't like you?”

Arthur draws up his shoulders. “It was just a vibe I had from you.” 

“Then you got the wrong vibe from me,” Merlin says, incredulity sneaking into his tone. “Maybe I'm not a fan of royalty as an idea but I don't know you well enough to dislike you, and irrationally I sort of, stupidly, do like you.”

“It was the football, wasn't it?” Arthur asks, flicking a casual look to Merlin's poster. “I share your hobby.”

“Just one of them,” Merlin says, holding up one finger. “I like to think I'm hardly that shallow.”

“To be taken in by hobbies.” Arthur shrugs, a smile slipping away from him. “Must be my charming personality.”

Merlin's shoulders shake very subtly. “You can be charming but your personality can use some work, I think.”

“Why d'you say that?” Arthur says, conspiring in a joke.

Merlin laughs just like he thought he would; the pleasant jingle of it fills his chest, lightening it. “You do tend to come across as a bit... high and mighty.”

“Maybe that's genetic.”

“I doubt there's a gene that makes you hoity toity,” Merlin says, eyes dancing. “I'm a doctor, remember? Can't fool me that way.”

“No, I guess not.”

His voice trails off, leaving the room to plunge into silence. There's no awkwardness to it, but a certain amount of zinging tension. With the lull in the conversation, Merlin turns off the lights. They share the quiet for a long spell, their breathing slowing to match. Arthur's eyes adapt to the darkness until he can pick out shapes instead of a velvety mass of nothing. Even though his body goes into repose mode, the air crackles with sparks of expectation.

“Are you sleeping?” Merlin asks with a quaver of a voice evidently geared not to wake him, if indeed Arthur's dozed off.

“No.”

Sheets rustle with Merlin's movement. The soft slap of feet on the floor follows. Arthur's mattress dips with Merlin's weight.

Arthur's breath strives out of his chest, quick, serrated. The bed springs give again. Arthur can taste Merlin's breath and count the feather light beats of it. His back a blurred bent line, his hands hollowing the mattress with their pressure, Merlin closes in. His mouth is soft over the folds of Arthur's lips, moving slowly to ignite the sluggish pulse of Arthur's blood.

This time Merlin lets his tongue slip between Arthur's lips. Arthur opens to it, trading slow slick touch for slow slick touch, his hand cupping Merlin's cheeks, fingers spanning a length of bone and softer flesh prickly with a measure of stubble. The kiss scatters sensation throughout Arthur's body, speeding up his heartbeat, numbing his thoughts. He pushes into it with some fire, licking, lapping, his breath growing heavier and heavier, a sob wrenched from low within his chest until with a last sweep of moist lips it's over and Merlin draws back. The dimple in his cheek deepens. “Try to sleep, Your Highness,” he says in a voice as deep as a fog horn.

Arthur wants to say something. He wants to pull Merlin by the neck, land him on top of him and kiss him, pull down his boxers, and make love to him till dawn. But after all that's happened, the scandal he's caused, he can't do that to his father. If such news got out, Merlin would be thought of as unprofessional and Arthur irredeemable. Besides, there's no guarantee Merlin intended for more than a kiss to happen.

“Good night,” Arthur says, attempting not to dwell on the physical sensations Merlin's kiss awoke at all, not to chase the taste of him on his tongue.

The next morning dawns bright and serene. It's terribly hot again and the mud's dried. This means that all roads are passable again.

Manyeh has already come and gone, wishing him a safe journey back to Freetown.

With more fuss than is necessary, Cador prepares the car under Leon's watchful gaze.

Arthur could be waiting in the house, but doesn't go hide there. Restlessness dogs his steps and he does a lot of pacing, until, he has to stop because he's baking and that much movement isn't advisable. At last, Leon turns and says, “The car is ready, sir.”

“Have you filled the tank?”

“Yes, sir,” says Leon, his eyebrows twitching. “It was the first thing we made sure of.”

“Good, good,” says Arthur, staring at the car's boot. “So we're all set to go, I gather.”

“Yes, that's what I was saying,” Leon says, eyes going smaller with scrutiny. “The car's ready. We can go. So if you'd like to follow me, sir.”

The thud of feet on soft ground makes Arthur's turn his head.

Breath fanning out of him rather fast, Merlin jogs up to him. He stops a few yards away and walks the rest of the distance. Hands at his hips, back and legs slightly bent, he pants out, “I just had a break. I thought you'd have already left, but I wanted to say goodbye, so here I am.”

Arthur smiles and extends a hand. “It was a pleasure sharing rooms with you, Dr Emrys. It certainly reminded me of my Eton days.”

Merlin's cheeks take on more colour than before. “I was glad to meet you,” Merlin says, shaking his hand and looking to Leon, Pellinore, Cador and the few kids who've come to have a peek at Arthur's departure. “I hope... I hope we made a good impression.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, not letting go of Merlin's hand yet. “A good and lasting one.”

“I'm glad.”

Arthur roots in one of his pockets and then hands Merlin his visiting card. “Write to me,” he says, looking at his shoes so he won't read Merlin's first reaction to his gesture. “If only to remind me that there's more to the world than palace politics.”

Merlin holds his card between both hands and puffs his cheeks out, whistling through his teeth. “I'll write,” Merlin says after a pause that lasts a few beats. “I promise.”

“Good,” says Arthur, leaning a little bit closer to whisper. “I'll be waiting.”

Merlin's lower lip slips under his upper one. He nods but doesn't add anything. Arthur rests his gaze on him for a few lasting moments then walks to the car, settling in the back, Leon ducking to sit next to him.

As the car starts, Arthur doesn't look back. He wonders, however, if Merlin stayed to watch him go or not.

It seems inconsequential but since London – and with it a reprisal of his usual life – awaits, Arthur cares.

He sighs and closes his eyes.

 

*****  
 __  
To: arthurthebadpenny@gmail.com  
CC:  
Subject: Hello.

_Dear Arthur,  
Writing the two words above took me five minutes. That time was spent deciding whether to go with etiquette and look up forms of address or to fuck with rules and just write your given name. Then I realised that even thinking about the issue was stupid and I had a bit of a crisis. Why did I even think these kind of rules were important at all, etc. It's just not me to be so mindful of them. Ergo I went into self doubt mode.)_

_When I was done with that, another little problem came up: I'd already settled for 'Arthur' when I actually began to wonder whether I should actually mail you or not, asking myself if you'd given me your card because you wanted to hear from me or just out of politeness._

_Since there's no way of establishing that without writing in the first place, I am doing so. At most I'll look like a plonker when I get no answer._

_So let me write something that is somewhat meaningful (and not utter gobshite). Today was hard at work._

_I lost a kid. We wanted to drive her to Freetown, because they have better equipment there, but she worsened overnight, and by then moving her was impossible._

_It's harsh when it's like that._

_And then I remembered the words to a song my mum used to sing to me when I was disgustingly young:_

_One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing_  
And you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky  
But till that morning, there ain't nothin' can harm you 

_So I'm trying to stick to that mantra. Mantras are good, aren't they?_

_I suppose that I should ask about you. Normally I would. If you weren't you. But what does one ask you without being the kind of bloke that pries? So instead I'm going to hope you're well and that something made you smile today._

_Merlin Emrys._

_PS: Amadu showed me the cheques. Normally, I'd screw my nose up and yell 'mate, you're crazy'. But I guess you're you, a prince sitting on a gold mine, so I'm going to say: my kids need more of your donations, so if it's okay with you, keep them coming._

 

**** 

 

London

The blurred club lights are alive in a rainbow spectrum of twisted whorls. They flicker and flash, dry-ice smoke emanating from the floor. Blue, white, orange and green lights shine in different directions. The music pounds loudly enough to give Arthur the beginnings of a headache and hurt his ears. He can sense his heartbeat and almost fancy he can pick out that of the other patrons.

There are a lot of people in the club, wall-to-wall. Lights continue to blink. People are dancing and sweating on the dance floor. Arthur studies the action, leaning back against the white leather sofa.

Bodies gyrate and bump with wild abandon; hands grope and lips linger on necks. Everyone seems to be melting and sweating with the heat of so many people crammed into one spot.

The people around the stage area are so pressed together they can barely move.

From this area, Mab, a girl from his group, emerges. She goes stumbling forwards in a staggering fall across the room, tumbling on high heels between tables and chairs.

Arthur wants to sign to her so she can see him, but his phone, which he's got propped on his thigh, vibrates.

The screen lights up with the words. “n _ights in Sierra Leone can be amazing. Drowning in stars.”_

Arthur's fingers hover over the keypad before his fingers compose the following message: “ _u still up?”_

In the space of a few seconds Arthur's mobile buzzes again. _“just like u. Bet ure having more fun than me.”_

Arthur's lips stretch into a smile.

“That smile is the smile of a bloke who's just got down to sexting,” Gwaine says, a glass in his hand. “Who is it? The American model from that scandal that got you splashed on page one?”

“No,” says Arthur, turning his mobile off. “Not him.”

Gwaine finds a spot on the edge of a niche Arthur's sitting around. “Then who is it? Must be someone special.”

“It's nothing of the kind,” says Arthur, slipping his mobile in his pocket. “Just someone I met.”

“Who writes to you at three in the morning?” Gwaine says, taking a sip from his glass, the ice at its base clinking. “I don't think so.”

“I can assure you,” Arthur says, knowing he's telling the truth, “nothing ever happened.”

“That's telling,” Gwaine says, tipping the base of the glass towards Arthur as though it's an accusatory finger. “You didn't say 'there's nothing to it'. You said 'nothing happened,' which in my experience is a shortened version of 'but I wanted it to'.”

Arthur turns his head away, trying to prevent a smile from breaking on his lips. “That's your biased, one-track-mind interpretation.”

“Oh don't play the little virgin babe in the woods with me, princess,” says Gwaine, smacking his lips together. “I'm pretty sure you have as fine an eye for bright young things as I do.”

Arthur can't deny his past but he doesn't want to talk about Merlin or embroil him in it. Pushing off the sofa, he says, “That's not what this is.”

“Hey,” says Gwaine, leaning over the table between them to make a grab for him, “where are you going?”

“Home,” says Arthur, nodding at the doors behind which Cador and Pellinore are waiting. “It's late enough.”

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” says Gwaine with an uneasy burst of laughter, “you can't tell me that Uther has you under house arrest!”

“He doesn't,” Arthur says, but using this excuse as a valid one, he says, “but I'm not supposed to make more messes.”

Gwaine arches an eyebrow. “The Lady Vivian is hardly a mess and even His Majesty couldn't object to her family tree. Plus, she's hot.”

Arthur can't say that Vivian is anything less than beautiful. But that's not the point. “I agree, she's hot.”

“And here,” Gwaine says, trying and failing to spot her among the crowd of dancers. “Believe me, she won't say no to you.”

“Still going home, Gwaine,” says Arthur, slipping his hands in his pockets, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “See you at the polo Tuesday, okay?”

Gwaine nods and shrugs. “All the more for me then, and, yes, Tuesday.”

A few eyes on him, a few heads leaning in close to whisper, Arthur leaves the club. With Pellinore and Cador in tow Arthur lets himself be driven to Kensington Palace. Alone in his room he takes his mobile out of his pocket and flings himself on his bed. He doesn't even bother to take his shoes off. He just takes to texting.

_“Still awake?”_

 

*****

 

The party is in full swing. The orchestra is playing from the musician's gallery overhanging the Yellow Room. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Each one has, reaching out from frosted and gold-veneered glass arms, a diamond-shaped bulb at the tip, drooping downwards like a bright tear.

They throw their golden glow over the milling guests, men in their dark evening jackets, ladies in their haute couture, gowns trailing after them like a carpet of stars.

Arthur is standing under the gallery listening to the notes of a Beguine, when Merlin clears the great double doors standing open at the other end of the room.

Gripping his glass tighter, Arthur's back goes rigid, his heartbeat accelerates until he can feel it in his ears and at his wrists.

Merlin looks completely different from the last time Arthur saw him and yet the same. He's forgone his jeans, muddy trainers and chequered shirts in favour of an evening jacket and bow-tie ensemble. His hair, though, hasn't been tamed into submission. As he marches inside, it becomes clear that his smile hasn't dimmed either. It shines just as bright as when he was levelling it at a bunch of kids he was playing football with.

On seeing him, Arthur wants nothing better than to give his glass to a passing waiter and cross over to him. His feet almost move of his own volition but then he remembers that's not how things work.

He can't single Merlin out like that. Officially, he has no reason to. So instead he watches as Merlin moves over to Gaius Paterson, whom Arthur hadn't noticed was there at all. Paterson pats Merlin's shoulder, exchanges a few words with him and then leads him over to a group of society ladies, one of whom is Arthur's great aunt on his mother's side.

Arthur is starting to guess at the purpose of Merlin's visit when his own father surprises him by saying, “Arthur.”

“Sir,” Arthur says, stiffening all over.

“I see you've been doing your duty tonight,” Uther says, hands behind his back, chin up. “See that you don't forget to follow through.”

“No, sir,” Arthur answers, hinting at the lightest shake of his head.

“In the past three months,” Father begins again, “you have been behaving correctly. Don't throw it away now.”

“Yes, sir,” says Arthur, relinquishing his glass. “I'll do as you suggest.”

“Well then,” Father says, turning at a slight angle to watch the crowd, “I'll leave you to it.”

With that, Father stiffly walks away.

Arthur spends the next hour ingratiating the nobility of the realm, talking about his future projects, the role he would take in future, which entails sharing the burden of representation with his father. Everybody keeps giving him pats on the back, figuratively of course, about his enthusiasm concerning his role in the monarchy. Nobody mentions his track record, as if it's been swept aside by a few smiles and the right words.

Arthur alternates between a wish to charm them even more – as Father said – and one to say fuck it and tell them what he thinks, what hypocrites they are. He doesn't, of course. He's just regained some respect; he's not about to jeopardise it.

His sense of dissonance gets drowned in the following song and Arthur moves over to the next group of people, nodding his head, smiling primly, his back stiff as a board.

The band is playing a modern instrumental version of The Continental, when the shuffling of people allows him to come face to face with Merlin again. “Merlin,” he says, his formal smile widening at sight of him. “I--” He pauses as his eyes rake over Merlin again, taking in those details he hadn't been able to make out before, how stretched thin his skin his, the circles under his eyes. “I didn't know you'd be here. In London, I--”

“I know,” says Merlin, grinning in answer to Arthur's smile. “It was a last minute decision.”

“It can't have been,” Arthur says, tipping up his eyebrows. “Not if you got an invitation to this party. They went out aeons ago.”

Merlin lowers his head, letting out the most ephemeral of sighs. “Yeah, Gaius got two. He just didn't know which one of us to bring.”

Arthur isn't sure he's clear as to what Merlin means. “I think you'll have to explain better.”

“Oh, yes, right,” Merlin says, his hand going through his hair, undoing his previous work at combing it. “I meant Gaius wanted to send Mordred but then went for me.”

“Send?” Arthur lightly scratches at his temple. “It sounds as though you're on a mission.”

“Yes, in a way,” Merlin says, the hint of laughter playing hide and seek with his tone. “I am. To find more funds or rather funders.”

“Oh, I thought that--”

“You were generous,” Merlin interrupts him, “but you can't donate more than you did and the organisation can't make do only with that. Hence my presence. They thought that a direct account of what's going on, the difficulties we, as doctors, encounter, would move people more.”

“It certainly will.” Partly, Arthur thinks it's because a direct appeal is better when it comes to getting people to part with their money. He also believes that Merlin is better suited to fulfil the role of funds hunter just by virtue of how committed and endearing he is. He'll move them to donate cartloads of money. “And I'm sure you'll milk people better than Doctor May.”

“Mordred isn't always so private, you know,” Merlin says, cringing a bit. “I mean once you get to know him, he thaws, and he's as as nice a man as you might wish.”

Arthur colours. “I hope he isn't too nice.”

“Why would you hope something like that?” Merlin's eyes get a bit smaller though his smile doesn't falter.

“To you, then,” Arthur finds himself blurting out. “I hope he isn't too nice to you.”

Merlin bites his lip and grabs a glass from a tray a waiter is holding. He half empties it in his mouth, spluttering as soon as he's done, his lips moist with the liquid. “Your Highness,” he starts.

Before Merlin can say something he doesn't want to hear, Arthur says, “Let's not discuss that, not here.”

“What do you m--”

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder and leans in close to say low, “Palace parties are so boring. Let's play truant.”

Merlin worries his mouth some more though his eyes do light up. “I'd love to leave but I'm supposed to... you know, milk the crowd for charity funds. I can't leave.”

“What if I promised I'll get some of my friends to donate?” he says, thinking most of them won't say no. “I'm sure I can persuade more than a few.”

“But that should be my job,” Merlin says, flailing his hand at the room. “That's why Gaius made me come here.”

“I can get you the same result with a few texts,” Arthur says, cajoling.

Merlin surrenders his glass to a waiter. “No, that's not fair. It's not your job.”

“Neither is it yours,” Arthur points out. “Last I heard of you were a doctor, not a promoter.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, pulling at his jacket as if he's a knight reading for battle, yanking his visor down. “But I can't be a doctor if I've got nothing to cure my patients with, can I?”

“Let's compromise,” says Arthur, before Merlin can go and dump him here. “I can introduce you to most people around here, people who're always busy with charities.”

“Okay.” Merlin nods to himself. “That's reasonable.”

Arthur introduces Merlin to relatives and friends; rich matrons and old portly gentlemen who own half of Mayfair by themselves, to the younger “it” generation, and to any acquaintance who's got a charitable bone in their body.

It takes him an hour and gains him his father's reproach by way of a stiff mouth and the reproof in his eyes. But Arthur doesn't particularly care, not with Merlin so close after months of thinking him a nice dream conjured during his two days in Sierra Leon.

Two hours tick by before Merlin's got promises enough to fund DA for a year, and Arthur is able to whisk him away, up the staircase and then down again to a secluded corner of the Palace gardens.

The rose bushes aren't in bloom, it's way too early for that, but flowers grow in the beds unfolding either side of the path, washed grey by the moonlight, their cups bowed in the absence of light. The garden's design is still visible though. The manicured lawns are clearly tidy and neat; trees push up from the soil at regular intervals.

“It's beautiful here.”

Gravel cracks under Arthur's soles. “I wasn't sure you'd appreciate it.”

“Because I'm such a philistine?” Merlin asks, his voice tighter than before, his shoulders hunching, folding inwards.

Arthur sometimes can't seem to reason with Merlin. On paper, when they write, it's much easier. But when they're talking he seems to fall into the same trap, saying something that can be somehow misconstrued as dismissive of Merlin. “I didn't mean that. I simply thought you would think this place the product of privilege.”

“I do,” Merlin says, breathing in the night's air. “And it is, but it's beautiful too.” Merlin's chest hollows with another inhale that sounds loud in the stillness. “I don't hate you, you know.”

“I know,” Arthur says, flashing back to the physical sensation the touch of Merlin's lips woke in him. “I do.”

“And I love nature too,” Merlin says, pushing at a fallen conker with the tip of his shoe. “Thank you for taking me here.”

As they take another turn around this part of the gardens, they fall silent. When they round beneath the windows they hear music come from within.

Arthur asks, “How long are you going to stay?”

Merlin scratches at his temple. “Eight days.”

“And,” Arthur starts again, hesitant to say the words, putting them out slowly, “what are you going to do with your time in those eight days?”

“I have a few more DA meetings scheduled,” Merlin says in a lilt. “A tour of schools to illustrate our activities to kids. Oh and I'm going to visit my mum on the weekend. She wouldn't let me live it down if I came back for the first time in a year and skipped visiting.”

Even though this isn't the best opener, Arthur takes the plunge. “Would you have time to go out with me?” Arthur's breath fizzles out. “I don't know, maybe you could come to the theatre with me?”

“You do that kind of thing?” Merlin waves a hand about. “I mean go out in public like that?”

Arthur can't help but give a high-pitched chuckle. “Of course I do go out. I'm not a recluse.”

“I thought you wouldn't.”

“I do,” Arthur says, “not all the time because I have lots of other formal engagements that don't allow me to go gallivanting about town but this week is mostly duty free for me.”

“Oh.”

“So what's your answer?” Arthur asks, knowing he should give Merlin time to think about his offer, but unable to stop himself from forcing the issue. “Are you coming?”

“When's this outing going to be?”

The truth is that Arthur doesn't have any idea. He doesn't have any tickets at all. His plan is to go back home, launch Firefox and buy the first two good tickets for any show that's not sold out. If they should all be, rare occurrence that, he'll bribe his friends to yield two, or get Leon on a theatre's manager case and pester them for freebies. He's never used the leverage being royal offers, but he's ready to make an exception.

“Friday,” he says, betting on Merlin being free then.

“I’ll leaving early on Saturday.”

Arthur feels his facial muscles crumple.

“But I'll make it, promise.”

“I'll tuck you in bed myself way before midnight,” Arthur says, feeling heat prickling at the roots of his hair in spite of the bubbly breeze freshening the air.

“Don't worry, fairy godmother,” Merlin says, “I may be tired but I think I can manage to stay up until eleven or so.”

“Okay then,” Arthur says, stopping short and sticking his hand out. “It's a done deal. Let's shake on in it.”

Merlin looks at his hand, then away, a smile tugging at his lips. He fits his palm against Arthur's, hot and yielding. “All right.”

Arthur wraps his fingers around Merlin's hand, squeezing it. He feels the touch along the length of his arm, a thrill chasing upwards. His breath is punched out of him for a second and he fancies Merlin's breathing accelerates too. “So, Friday it is.”

They take another tour of the garden. Arthur's of half a mind to show Merlin his mother's favourite spot when Merlin slows down, shoulders drooping. His eyelids slowly flicker downwards. Arthur's never seen anyone actually fall asleep on their feet, not even during his two years in the Navy, but thinks that Merlin might just be about to.

“Okay,” he says, keeping Merlin from tripping over a twig, “you're going home.”

“Mmkay,” Merlin says, knuckling at his eyes.

“You're really done in, aren't you?”

“Was working my last shift yesterday, and then I flew in,” Merlin says, passing a hand over his brow.

“You work too much.” Arthur stops then, putting a stop to their bumming around. It can only contribute to tiring Merlin more. “I'll get you a driver to take you home.”

“What? No!” says Merlin, waving his hands in denial. “I came by tube. I'll get a lift back.”

“And who's going to take you?” Arthur asks, doubtful any of the guests would extend this courtesy to Merlin.

“Gaius is!”

“I think Gaius is enjoying the party,” Arthur says, wishing Merlin would listen to him. A car driven by one of his drivers, experts all of them, would take him home in far less time than Gaius and his vehicle could.

“Well,” Merlin says, yawning, “the man had me come here all the way from Africa he might as well tear himself away and get me to Sefa's.”

“Sefa?” Arthur asks, wondering whether that's Merlin's girlfriend. It could well be. Arthur's never thought to ask. “You never mentioned her in your mails.”

Merlin looks back to the palace. “Didn't I say?”

Arthur shakes his head, heart in his throat. “No.”

“When I got the Sierra Leone job, I, well, gave up my flat,” Merlin says, reddening a little. “It didn't seem to make sense to pay all that much money for rent when I wouldn't be there. So, yeah, I'm sleeping on Sefa's sofa.”

Reassured as to Sefa not being Merlin's girlfriend, Arthur says, “Don't bother Gaius. I can still get you that driver.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, placing his hand before his mouth when he gives into a second yawn, “Gaius owes me and I'm not using government cars just to get home faster.”

Arthur nods. “Okay, all right, just... go home, will you. You look kanckered.”

“Not sure that's highly complimentary, but I feel that way, so--” Merlin leans in and kisses Arthur's cheek, his eyes shining the same dark blue as the night sky. “Good night, Arthur.”

Arthur's face flames hot for a second or two, then goes back to normal. No sooner has he recovered than Merlin sets off towards the palace. Before catching up, Arthur watches him walk his lolloping walk and smiles.

 

**** 

 

Organisationally, the theatre outing is a big pain in the arse. Arthur must be the only adult in the United Kingdom subject to a bunch of others to be able to so much as set a foot outside. Once the tickets are secured, the real trouble starts. Arthur's got to have bodyguards and a driver and a car out of the lot of armoured cars that's been provided for him needs to be prepared for his use. He has to give notice and explain why there's been an impromptu change of plans from intending to spend the night at home to a last-second theatre jaunt.

“I'll try to move shifts,” Leon says, flipping sheets taped to a clipboard. “But you could have given us more notice.”

“I wanted to see the play,” Arthur says, crossing his arms and making a big show of being interested in what Sky News has to report.

“Strangers on a Train?” Leon asks, as if that's preposterous. “It's been out for more than a month, sir. And if you like the plot so much I can hire you the Hitchcock film. Same story.”

Somewhat petulantly, Arthur says, “I want to see it live, so get me a driver.”

“Very well, sir,” says Leon, taking a note. “I'll arrange for one to drive you.”

Leon seems more petulant than necessary about this. But that doesn't stop Arthur from saying, “And we're stopping en route.”

Leon nods. “Where?”

Arthur provides Merlin's address without saying it's Merlin they're picking up. He's pretty sure that Leon will have the protection team look into that address anyway.

When the evening comes, Arthur can't decide what to wear. There'll be press and he will be photographed. That makes the event somewhat formal. But he doesn't want to go overboard with that. He isn't sure Merlin's got any fancy duds with him and he doesn't want to embarrass him. He opts for a cashmere jumper and trousers that could pass muster at any social event but that have been worn often enough to have become comfortable.

When Leon sees him, his eyes go infinitesimally smaller but he doesn't say anything.

When Arthur's car turns up, Merlin is ready to jump into it. He still looks done in, his complexion pale. He still has dark smudges under his eyes though not as prominent as they were, thankfully. He's wearing jeans, trainers – new ones – and a jumper that sports so many colours it's a punch in the gut. Arthur thinks he's made a right wardrobe choice as soon as his eyes latch onto it.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Arthur asks, reaching for Merlin's cheek but dropping his hand before he can graze his fingers to Merlin's face.

“Oh,” Merlin says, rubbing at the back of his scalp. “As it turns out Sefa's flatmate and her boyfriend are pretty loud. Didn't sleep much. But hopefully he isn't in tonight.”

They share a moment of silent laughter together, Merlin's cheeks puffing out, his expression mischievous, Arthur biting his tongue to stop from chuckling. The moment flutters and grows between them until Arthur wants it to swallow him whole.

He's not so stupid as to think that possible; he taps the roof and says to the driver, “Go.”

As expected he gets papped as he enters the theatre even if he's made sure to be dropped there only two minutes before the curtain's up. He just pastes on a smile but Merlin blinks like the presence of photographers is a complete surprise. Arthur should probably have told him that the car he drives around in is known and that he would therefore be spotted by journalists. He has a feeling though that if he had said has much Merlin wouldn't have come.

The tramp to the foyer is short and they're seen to their places with the least fuss possible. The lights are already down so no one notices who Arthur is. There's no gasps of recognition, no giggles when they sight him.

Merlin sinks into his seat with a smile on his face. No sooner has he settled than the actors appear on stage. Arthur's eyes go there too, but although the production is good, his gaze strays over to Merlin.

In the darkness of the dress circle he can see Merlin as a play of shadows. The whites of his eyes shine; his features seem sharper though more blurred at the edges in a strange mixture of keen and dreamlike. Merlin smiles when he should smile and leans forward in his seat at the ending of act one.

During the interval, Arthur buys Merlin a drink. With lighting on his incognito goes the way of the dodo, of course. Arthur has a distinct feeling every single person in the bar knows who he is. “This is awkward,” Merlin comments. “I had no idea it was like this for you.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur says, perching on a stool with his back to most of the room. “You get used to living with your life under the microscope. It's part of... part of the deal.”

“Yes, I understand,” Merlin says, juggling with his glass without drinking. “But... I always thought it wouldn't exactly be like this.”

“And what did you think it would be like?” Arthur asks, studying Merlin's profile.

“More glitter and glamour,” Merlin says, tipping his glass so the ice slides forward. “And less... less unwanted attention.”

“It's always mostly unwanted,” Arthur says, needing to specify, to tell Merlin that he isn't ungrateful, that he doesn't resent his position, but wanting him to understand that being the Prince of Wales isn't always easy. He's about to voice some of that when Arthur's third cousin appears. “Oh hello, Art, fancy seeing you here.”

Arthur does his best to summon a thin smile. “Geraint, I didn't know you were into theatre.”

“Oh I am not,” says Geraint, clapping Arthur on the back and ordering himself a shot of Scotch. “But this model I'm with... She is. And I have a dastardly plan involving getting into her pants before the night is out.”

Merlin sends him a look and Arthur does his best to not wince. “I see,” he says, searching for something to say that won't be offensive.

“Oh come on,” says Geraint, squeezing his shoulder. “Try and be more supportive.”

“I'm sure you'll impress the girl,” says Arthur.

“I'm sure the old man's bank account is going to do it,” Geraint says, his eyes glinting. “And if not that my friendship with Ben will. She wants to be an actress and they're casting his next film.”

Arthur smacks his lips together. “Well, good luck then,” he says, offering his hand for Geraint to shake, as curt a goodbye as he can make this.

Geraint's eyes fall on his hand. “Oh now I get it. You're in the same position as me.” He chuckles a fat, boisterous chuckle while darting a glance at Merlin. “I'll leave you to it, eh?”

Once Geraint has gone, Arthur turns to Merlin, sure Merlin won't want to have anything to do with him ever again after learning who Arthur has on occasion hung out with. “I don't know what to say.”

“Don't,” says Merlin, his eyes roving the length of the bar, toying with his glass, his knuckles sharp as his fingers wrap around the clear surface. “You're not responsible for what he said.”

“I'm not,” Arthur says quickly, “using this to get somewhere with you.”

Merlin steals a glance at him, his eyebrow going up.

Arthur sees that he will have to be a bit more straightforward than that. “I'm not using this to get into your pants.”

Merlin's lips move quickly. “I didn't think, I mean, I didn't assume your friend was right. I thought him a bit of a cock actually.”

“He is,” Arthur says, with a sigh that rattles out of him fast enough to lift his fringe. “He is but he is not completely wrong either. His assumptions were wrong in one respect.”

Merlin fastens his eyes on him.

“I certainly didn't intend to invite you out with the sole purpose of getting there,” Arthur says, aware of being in public. Some words, he's been told, should never leave his mouth when he is. “But I'd be a liar if I said that I'm not interested in you, that--”

A look around the bar tells Arthur that they're the last left inside. “I think the interval might be over,” Merlin says, draining his glass and hopping off his stool. “We--” he starts again, searching Arthur's eyes. “We can talk later, right?”

Arthur follows him back to their seats, darkness all around them again. The appearance of the cast on stage makes talking impossible. Arthur settles in to enjoy the play, though he still gets distracted watching Merlin.

It's probably because his eyes do rove over Merlin from time to time that he notices he's dozed off. His body has relaxed, his back fully propped by the seat, his head tilted back, his mouth slightly open. Something softens inside Arthur at the notion Merlin must really be knackered if he's managed to fall asleep over the noises of the play.

Arthur should probably elbow him awake; sleeping at the theatre is a bit rude, but he can't bring himself to interrupt Merlin's hard earned little nap.

It's only when, after the curtain call, clapping bursts across the theatre that Merlin sits up. Arthur sends him a grin. Merlin ducks his head, colours, and joins in with the clapping too.

Thanks to the courtesy of the theatre manager, Arthur is allowed the use of the stage door to get to his waiting car. Cador and Pellinore flanking them, they make their way to it. A few flashes go off, proof that some paparazzo or other has managed to perch somewhere around, but Arthur stops by the car door and says, “I hope this is not going to sound forward but--”

“Spit it out, Arthur,” Merlin says, with a smile that Arthur can't resist.

“Sleep at mine,” Arthur says, holding his hands up. “Just to sleep. If there's one thing I have at my disposal it's space and you're sleeping on a sofa at your friends'. With noisy people and--”

“Arthur,” Merlin says cupping his elbow. “I'm going to say yes. Even though--” He eyes the crowd that's looking speculatively at them in return– “I hope that's not going to be a problem for you.”

In that moment Arthur can't say he's thinking of scandals or consequences. “I do have a PR team,” says Arthur, herding Merlin into the car. “And we'll make sure to take a few detours so they don't know where we're stopping at.”

Arthur's driver takes his cue and drives all around London for an hour or so. The car following theirs falls back. One journalist less to snoop into his life.

Arthur can tell Merlin's only awake because he's making attempts at small talk that are very, very convoluted and make no sense. Arthur knows he's completely out of it when he starts comparing the qualities of mangoes to the murder plot of the play they saw.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, ill concealing a giggle. “I don't think you're making sense.”

“But plot devices and mangoes,” Merlin starts again only to go cross-eyed upon a review of his words. He passes a hand down his face. “You're right, I'm shot. I'm completely shot.”

“No worries,” Arthur says, a look out the car window confirming what he already knows. “We're nearly there.”

Not ten minutes later the car drops them at Kensington Palace. Arthur directs Merlin past the security guards, who're as expressionless as the walls, and into the building. “Are you sure I'm allowed?” Merlin asks, as Arthur directs him up the stairs of the cottage he occupies within the palace precinct.

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says, his hand going to the small of Merlin's back so he can shepherd him in the dark. “I'm sure you can come to my house.”

“It's just that it doesn't feel like a house,” Merlin says, foot catching on a carpeted tread.

A hand on his elbow, Arthur rights Merlin. “I should have turned the lights on,” he says, whispering because the darkness makes him feel as though everything's falling right into place. “Sorry.”

“No,” Merlin says, straightening, one hand going to the banister. “It's okay like this. It allows me to do this.”

Before Arthur can ask what, Merlin pivots a little and catches his lips with gentle pressure, a caress that rubs at his lips till they get plump and tingle with the kiss. Fingertips touch his jaw, the touch light, gentle, hot. A rasping breath shakes out of Arthur. Overwhelmed by the intensity of the desire he feels radiating from deep inside him, he closes his eyes. Merlin's tongue pushes at the seam of his lips until they open and the kiss deepens. Arthur lets himself want it; lets himself feel it, both the desire and the need.

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before he rests one of his hands on Merlin's hip, reeling him in.

A big hand covering Arthur's cheek, Merlin draws back and says, “This. I can do this.”

“You can do more of that if you want,” Arthur says, likely sounding like an idiot, his breath stolen by one single kiss, by Merlin's breath fanning close to his face, his body heat warming him from the near contact.

“I shouldn't,” Merlin says, but his fingers thread through his hair, his hand stays on Arthur's face, guiding him into another wet kiss. “God knows I shouldn't, but I want to kiss you again. Been wanting to since I saw you again.”

“Why shouldn't you?” Arthur asks, not sure if he wants to hear the answer to that question.

“Because you're complicated,” Merlin says, renewing their kiss, making it messy and fast, his breathing accelerating.

Arthur could have said he's no such thing, but his thoughts scatter. He roams his hand up Merlin's chest, testing the yield of his flesh and the suppleness of his muscle, Merlin's shirt rippling under his fingers. “Come to my bed.”

“Do you always sound so old fashioned when you're trying to get laid?” Merlin asks, the breath between their mouths hot.

“No,” Arthur says, backing Merlin up against the banister before mouthing the side of his jaw. “It's just you.”

Merlin tips his head back, allowing Arthur to run his lips under his chin and up his neck. “I like it 'it being j-just me'.”

They move to Arthur's bedroom. Thanks to the open window there's enough light to steer by without making recourse to electricity. The darkness helps too; lets him keep part of the thrill at bay, clothes his emotions with a quieter expectancy. He's still riding a high of emotion but he's self possessed enough to direct Merlin to his bed and to chuckle at Merlin's comment, “I can't see much but is this a very wide, very royal bed?”

“It's big enough--”

“For three?” Merlin asks. “Four?”

“You and me,” Arthur says, before sliding to his knees. He runs his heads up Merlin's thigh, from knee to pelvis. With a hand that trembles he tugs Merlin's shirt free of his trousers and pushes it up his torso.

It bunches up in a holy mess of creases. “Wait, wait,” Merlin says as he grabs the hem of his shirt to help pull it up. Once it's off his head, Merlin lets it fall on the bed beside him. Arthur places a kiss on Merlin's bare stomach, causing the muscles to ripple at his touch.

“Do you want this?” he asks Merlin, because right now the thing he desires most is Merlin and he isn't quite sure he's got him.

Merlin lets his eyes fall to his lap, where his cock bulges. “I think it's safe to say,” he says, opening his belt, “that, yeah, I do want you.”

With the belt gone, Merlin's trousers hang by a thread. All it takes to get them off is undoing the top button and Arthur yanking. In one handful Merlin's shoes, trousers and socks come off, leaving him in pale boxers that look greyish in the dark, the stain of pre-come looking a little translucent in this lighting.

“I feel like I'm the only one wearing next to nothing,” Merlin says, quick and low, a bit hoarse.

“Okay,” Arthur says, his voice in the same state of Merlin, “let's do a trade. I'll strip if you get rid of those.” He eyes Merlin's boxers. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Merlin says, shucking off his boxers, revealing sharp hips that reflect the moonlight at odd angles and a lean but long cock.

Clothes disposed of, Arthur returns to position, crawling forward into the gap between Merlin's thighs. He bends his head to kiss along Merlin's thigh, against the grain, hands tight on Merlin's hip. When Merlin gasps, hardening, Arthur leans forward to nuzzle his cock with his cheek.

Merlin's rattled intake of breath makes Arthur want to hear more of that, to take Merlin apart, make Merlin remember in future what Arthur can give him. So he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, rubbing his tongue around the tip and along the underside, working at exercising more pressure with his tongue. Merlin's moan is low and bitten off. Arthur slides his mouth down and doesn’t stop until he's swallowed Merlin to the hilt. 

Merlin's hips come off the bed in a stutter. Sliding the cock-head up past his lips, he slowly pumps his cock in Arthur's throat. The more Merlin lets go, the more Arthur begins to see stars, lack of oxygen making the experience purer, more heightened, a shock of lust and adrenaline coursing through him. It's only when he relaxes the muscles in his neck that it's easier.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, cupping his head, pulling on his hair when Arthur doesn't pause. “Arthur, stop. I haven't-- Been too long. Don't- Don't want to come yet.”

Arthur doesn't want it to end either, the thought that this is it, however pleasurable – leaves him feeling hollow. The night, they should have the night at least. He draws back. “Okay,” he says, pulling back, tasting of Merlin, nosing up his thigh.

Merlin pulls him up and reaches for Arthur, taking hold of his face with firm hands, kissing him. Arthur shakes, touching Merlin with his tongue and lips and teeth.

Their noses bump one against the other, cheeks rough with stubble, their tongues lapping in the spaces between their mouths.

Merlin's hands move up as he grips Arthur by his chest, fingers digging deep where Arthur's flesh is softer, reeling him close. They trade a back and forth of hungry kisses. Arthur can't stop and can't quite breathe, he's so filled with brimming need.

Fingers skate across his cheekbones. With a harsh breath Arthur buries his face into Merlin's neck. Merlin lies underneath Arthur, his hands spanning his chest, gripping his hips, mapping the length of his back, their legs tangled together. Thrusting upwards into Arthur, Merlin lights warmth up Arthur's spine, their cocks becoming slick and slippery, seeking contact.

In half a daze Arthur stares down at him, his weight resting on his arms while his hips move in waves.

They grip each other tight. Merlin roams his hands up his back and shoulders, fingers sliding through his hair. Softly, Arthur nuzzles and kisses Merlin's neck. The first wave of sharp desperation wanes, leaving him wanting Merlin with a new found desire that's less a thirst for sex and more of a want of Merlin. He lays kisses along Merlin's jaw line and around his neck. When Merlin throws his head back, exposing his neck, Arthur kisses the rise of his Adam's apple.

His prick slides against Merlin's. His breathing gets laboured. Short of breath, he kisses Merlin again with his mouth open and with his heart climbing to his throat. With every slide of their cocks, pleasure grows in him, and he finds himself clutching Merlin, one palm around his shoulder, the other fisting the sharp arch of his hips.

Seeking relief, he moves his lower body against Merlin, stroking himself against Merlin's wet cock, a sob punctuating every motion. Merlin's legs fall open and Arthur is now rubbing between them, his legs shaking with exertion, his sobs becoming moans. He cries out as he comes, shuddering in waves that pulsate out of him.

A moment of stunned, breathless quiet ensues, Merlin's chest rising and falling under his, sticky with sweat, taut and strung up in its quest for orgasm. Merlin gazes up, eyes feverish but twinkling with a secret kind of merriment. A little in love with that expression, Arthur dusts Merlin's cheeks and nose with tiny wet kisses. Moving, he feels the wetness drying between them and the heft of Merlin's still hard cock prodding him.

Arthur runs the pads of his fingers along Merlin' face, watching Merlin's eyes take on a darker light, lambent with fire. He can't wait.

He widens his legs, leaning over to get lube and condoms out of his night stand.

"Arthur?" Merlin breathes out, his hands streaking up Arthur's flanks. "You--"

"Yes," Arthur says, his voice coming out like the exhale you utter after a sucker punch. "Yeah."

After he's opened himself up and slicked Merlin's cock, he wraps his hand around Merlin's erection.

Strangled noises come from deep within Merlin's ribcage. Grabbing Arthur's thighs, Merlin scoots back, pulling Arthur's legs further apart.

The front of Merlin's legs glides against the sweaty back of Arthur's own, Merlin's cock nudging his hole. With Merlin's arms either side of his chest, Arthur bends to kiss Merlin's shoulder.  
.  
The fullness and burning taking his breath, Arthur bears down on Merlin as he hitches his hips down. After a few shimmies and some shallow rocking inside him, Merlin scrapes his prostate.

Vision whitening at the edges, Arthur throws his head back, tamping down on a moan. Though spent, his cock twitches. Goose flesh ripens on his skin, his nipples hardening as sparks travel up and down his body. Merlin inches up, his hands on Arthur's back, holding him as Arthur sinks down on him.

There's a pause between breaths, a moment during which they both hold back movement, and everything is so perfect Arthur is caught between wanting to speed them up and enjoying the plateau he's already on.

The taut quivering of his muscles giving rise to the bucking of Merlin's hips, they reprise their rhythm, Arthur rising and sinking, angling himself so as to allow Merlin to touch all the right spots.

With little releases of air, Arthur moves, Merlin holding him.

Lowering himself, eyes closed, he grazes his lips across Merlin's temple. For his part Merlin groans into Arthur's neck. They undulate slowly until Merlin's body goes into a tight lock, his lower lip disappearing under his upper one, whitening where it should swell into fullness. With a hand around Arthur he tugs on Arthur's prick, stripping him till his foreskin slides back and the head pokes out.

One more sharp swerve of his hips, his face blooming rose up to the neck, he relaxes under Arthur, his breathing starting again and slowing.

Arthur's doesn't come again but enjoys the kisses Merlin places on his wrist and hand. He folds on top of him where he stays until Merlin slips out. “I don't think I can move,” Merlin tells him, his eyes half lidded. “I don't think I can do anything.”

Arthur strips Merlin of the condom and throws it in the waste bin under the night stand. With a napkin he cleans him and then, the sheets puffing under him, he sinks back next to Merlin.

Once he's comfortable, he looks back up, saying, “So did it--” but stops talking when he realises Merlin has already fallen asleep. His eyes are shut and his mouth has fallen open, breath whistling in and out of it.

Arthur smiles and puts his head back on the pillow. He'd wanted to go for some humour but he doesn't think it would go well now. Merlin was tired even before they had sex, he must have been at the end of his tether right after. Arthur lets him doze and after he's found the right position to fold himself in, his body buzzed, he welcomes the fuzziness that comes with the early stages of sleep.

 

**** 

 

Cool light plays on his face from the prism of counterpanes that is the window. Arthur squints at it, at the warmth that spreads across his face. He stretches and turns, rolling onto his side.

Merlin hasn't moved. He's in the same position he was in when he fell asleep, his lips farther apart, his breathing lighter.

A grin works at Arthur's lips, stretching them so far Arthur's sure he looks silly. With a heave, he pushes the duvet off him and gets to his feet. His arms up his head, he's working the kinks out of his shoulders when Merlin makes a noise.

“Don't move,” Merlin says, in a voice rough with sleep and something else. “I don't wake every day to a view like that.”

Arthur stays still, conscious of Merlin's gaze of him. “Naked backsides? I thought as a doctor you'd seen plenty.”

“We're not talking anatomy here,” Merlin says, his tone amused. “And I'm not at work right now.”

Arthur hangs his head. “So like what you see?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, the sound of lips catching on lips loud in the room. “You can say that.”

Arthur walks to the other side of the bed, grabbing Merlin's chin and bending over for a kiss.

“Morning breath,” Merlin says as the space between their mouths narrows. “Morning breath, morning breath.”

Arthur doesn't let that stop him. He touches Merlin's lips to his, engaging Merlin in a kiss that starts gentle with a soft meeting of lips and gets hard, opening into a wet, intimate probing of tongues that has Arthur breathless and shivering.

Under his hand Merlin's heart misses a beat. “Breakfast or sex?” Arthur asks, nipping at Merlin's nose.

“Quickie and a long luxurious breakfast,” Merlin says, biting at Arthur's chin.

Arthur straddles Merlin then, feeling the shock of his bed-warm body, his knees sinking into the mattress around Merlin's upper thighs. Fitting their mouths together, Arthur wraps his fingers around their cocks, and begins stroking. Their cocks get heavier and Arthur feels his own body on edge.

Arthur fisting them, they rub against each other, pleasure lapping just behind the corner, the friction teasing them. As Merlin's kiss falters, Arthur runs his fingers over the vein-lined skin of Merlin's cock, then gives them both a sharp twist and tug. They growl at the same time, sending warm air fanning across their mouths. The swirl of heat inside him builds higher until Arthur comes, a gasp bathing Merlin's lips. Merlin comes, his face twisting with orgasm, when Arthur recovers enough to get his body under control. 

When he's done, Arthur vaults off him. “So how about that breakfast then?”

“Not without a shower,” Merlin says, grimacing at his chest.

Since Arthur's en-suite is large they take a shower together. They're both so spent they do really nothing but clean up, Arthur working Merlin's hair into a bubbly lather that smells like kiwi, Merlin soaping up Arthur's chest and back. When the time comes for them to rinse Merlin moves to stand directly under the shower jet. When the warm water hits him, turning his skin a faint lobster red, he moans.

“If you like creatures comfort so much,” Arthur finds himself asking without paying attention to his brain to mouth filter, “why did you take the job in Sierra Leone?”

Merlin turns his back to him, head tipped back at the shower's mouth. He passes both hands across his scalp, sluicing off shampoo. “Because that's where I'm most useful.”

“But you don't need to be there forever,” Arthur pushes even though he realises that's probably not a conversation to be had this early in the morning. “I mean, I'm sure you people take turns with these jobs.”

“I signed up for the next six months,” Merlin says, clearing the last of the lather off before stepping away from the jet. “And I'm eyeing another DA job.”

“I see,” Arthur says, eyes dropping to the shower floor. “I hope you get it then.”

“Gaius says he'll put in a good word,” Merlin tells him, stepping out of the shower.

Arthur goes for one last body rinse and then turns off the tap, stepping from behind the curtain to grab at a towel.

Merlin's already wrapped his around his middle and is currently using a second one to dry his hair.

Arthur dabs his body dry before patting at his hair with his towel. “You look like an otter,” he says, a wash of fondness travelling through him.

“I hope I'm a sexy otter at least,” Merlin quips right back, catching up on Arthur’s attempt to switch the mood back to what it had been.

Once they're presentable again, Arthur wearing his pyjamas and Merlin borrowing a tee and boxers, Arthur herds him out of his room.

“Are you sure I should be seen?” Merlin asks, digging his feet in, his hand flat on the door to stop Arthur from opening it wide. “Here I mean.”

Arthur knows what Merlin's talking about but refuses to act like a thief caught in flagrante in his own home. “The staff here all signed confidentiality agreements; besides I have a right to entertain whomever I want in my own home.”

“Yes, but,” Merlin says, his nose wrinkling in thought, “weren't you on your best behaviour?”

“This isn't a scandal,” Arthur says, pushing Merlin out of the room and closing the bedroom door behind him. “I'm not indulging in anything but a normal date.” He goes red, not sure how he should define what he and Merlin have got going after a night together. “So let's go eat,” he concludes, chest puffed out, jaw set as if he's the Conqueror before the Battle of Hastings.

Merlin just laughs, following him down the stairs, his socked feet making no noise as he takes the stairs down.

In the kitchen they meet Mary, the cook. Usually she's like a ghost, in and out, but today's a Saturday, which probably means she's lingering on to stock up the fridge with supplies. That way Arthur gets to eat delicacies that only need to be pre-heated and Mary gets to have the weekend off. 

Mary's not subtle in displaying her surprise at the sight of Merlin or in her study of him. She doesn't say anything of course, not relating to Merlin, that is. “I can whip you up a couple of eggs,” she says, “and if you're willing to wait a few more minutes I can do a full English.”

Right when Arthur's about to accept the offer, Merlin says, “I think I can do eggs.”

There's such a pleading look to him, eyes wide, that Arthur can only say, “I think Merlin and I can see to our breakfasts, thank you, Mary.”

Mary smiles, and it's way too knowing for Arthur not to experience a flush of embarrassment. “If that'll be all, I'll be back Monday morning at eight sharp, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” says Arthur, his hands ruffling his hair. “Thank you, Mary.”

When Mary's gone, Merlin opens the fridge. “You've got enough eggs to feed an army.”

“Yes, I'm fond of them,” Arthur says, wanting to help Merlin cook but not knowing where the pans and utensils are. As Merlin's got his head in the fridge, Arthur rummages cupboards for anything closing resembling a cooking implement. “Particularly in the morning.”

“Well, as a doctor, I should advice against eating so many eggs,” Merlin says, turning around with a carton of eggs tucked against his chest. “Arthur, what have you got there?”

“Mm,” Arthur says, turning the utensil he got out of his cupboard foray around and studying it. “I don't know. I was looking for a pan.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, voice cracked with laughter, “that's a colander.”

“Oh.” Arthur pouts at the thing before shoving it back where it came from. “Of course I didn't mean to use it for the eggs.”

Merlin walks past him, settling the egg carton on the counter. “No, of course not. It's your new, routine helmet.”

Arthur retrieves the colander and upends it on Merlin's head. It's so large it almost skims his nose. “Aye, aye, sergeant.”

Merlin's mouth forms into a knot. “Ah, ah, very funny,” Merlin says, before doffing the colander and chasing Arthur round the kitchen and into the anteroom, trying to put it on his head. They both land on the carpet, the woven strands of wool and silk giving him rug burn. Merlin lands on him and ends up straddling him, sliding the colander on top of Arthur's head, so that he's looking at Merlin through the holes in it. Merlin kisses Arthur's nose wetly. “You're totally spoilt, aren't you?” he says, so sweetly Arthur feels no sting at the words. “So much so you can't even make yourself eggs.”

“I can make myself eggs,” Arthur protests, clearly remembering that one time in uni he boiled a few for himself. “As a matter of fact I did--”

Merlin's lips close around his and tug softly, rubbing against his just before drawing away. Eyes sparking, Merlin sits back in his lap. “Come on, I'll teach you how to do eggs and grilled tomatoes. It's plenty easy.”

It's Merlin who finds the right kind of pan to fry eggs in. Apparently, Arthur owns non sticky ones. And it's still him who finds a grill pan to do the tomatoes in. Arthur is fascinated by Merlin cutting off their stems and halving them. Droopy green leaves end up in the bin while round tomato half moons grace the grill.

The aroma that fills the kitchen makes Arthur's mouth water. “Didn't know you could cook.”

“I can't,” Merlin says, turning the tomato with a wooden spatula. “But I can do simple stuff like this.”

They settle around the kitchen island, a plate before them. Arthur takes a bite of Merlin's eggs and moans.

“I wish I could have got that noise out of you when we were upstairs,” Merlin deadpans, his mouth curling up in an impish grin.

“Shut up, this is good--”

“But not as good as sex with me?”

Arthur throws a bread stick at Merlin. Merlin ducks, darts off his stool, picks up the bread stick, which has now splintered in two, and lobs the remaining parts back at him. Arthur grabs one projectile and eats it, munching loudly.

“Ew,” Merlin says, taking the stool again. “That's unsanitary.”

“Yes, doc,” Arthur says, still chewing though there's no more need. “Not such a stiff upper lip, after all, eh?”

“No, just a man who'd better pray he's got a good immune system,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes and forking more egg into his mouth.

As Merlin finishes, Arthur hums a little, rearranging tomatoes on his plate. After a while he says, “I know you meant to go to your mother's today...”

Merlin licks at the runny yolk the tines are steeped in in a way that Arthur considers sexy though it shouldn't by any means be. “Yeah, I wanted to catch the five-fity train and spend Sunday with her.”

“Well, I was thinking,” Arthur takes him up from that, “it's still early and we could spend the morning together.” Arthur waves his hand about. “Before you have to go.”

Merlin smiles. “You don't have to ask; you just have to lend me a clean shirt.”

“And a comb,” Arthur says, grinning right back. “You hair needs a serious lick down.”

“You big tosser!”

Merlin and Arthur race each other upstairs. Merlin blocks the entrance to Arthur's room, exacting a kiss before Arthur can walk past the doorway. Shedding his PJ shirt, Arthur ambles into his walk-in closet.

Merlin remains outside. He calls over, “I was wondering, where is it you want to go? I mean I suppose you'll have to go incognito and I don't reckon it's that easy for you when you're in London.”

Arthur peeks his head out of the closet. “Yes, but there are ways of going round it.”

“If you're sure.”

Arthur's sure and even if he wasn't he still wouldn't give up spending the morning with Merlin, not after he's considered how little time Merlin has left here. So he gives Merlin a clean shirt to wear and promises everything will just work out.

Sunglasses and a hoodie should take care of the recognisability factor. At least for a while. Without warning security, Arthur gets himself a car and drives to Richmond Station.

“What are we even doing here?” Merlin asks, looking around. “And you do remember I have a train to catch in the evening?”

“Yes, I do,” Arthur says, parking the car in as out of the way a position as possible. “And you'll see in a moment.”

Merlin only finds out what Arthur intends when he extracts two bikes from the boot of his car. “Oh, you want to go cycling.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, mounting on the seat of his bike. “Nobody expects the heir to the throne to go cycling on a Saturday morning.”

Merlin climbs the bike after him. “Well, I love cycling. I just hope the wind won't throw your hoodie back and reveal your super secret princely identity?”

“I'll take the risk,” Arthur says, pushing on the pedals and setting off. “You coming, Merlin?”

“Sure, I'll even race you.”

They take their bikes to Richmond Bridge, where they start on the Thames Path. Arthur's chosen to come here because the track is flat all the way and nobody will come looking for him in this place. No paparazzo would think of scouring this path for him.

During the first stretch of their cycle, they pass a sandy beach, where they stop to have a sandwich, the wind playing in Merlin's hair, his cheeks chafed red by the effort the bike-hike has required of him. When the sun has gone a bit further up, they continue upstream past Eel Pie Island towards Teddington Lock. Past that point, the river’s tidal section ends and an area that is mostly countryside opens up.

“The air is fresher here at least,” Merlin comments as he tries to overtake Arthur, who pushes his own pace just so he can be the first to arrive at Kingston Bridge.

“I'm glad it's medically approved.”

“It is,” Merlin says, sticking his legs wide off the pedals, and shouting like a loon.

A bit more winded than before, they pick up the path on the other bank, before they both declare themselves more than moderately tired and Merlin buys them a cuppa from a vendor. They sprawl on a lawn, Arthur sipping at his Styrofoam, Merlin watching him with a silly smile on his face.

“What?” Arthur asks, sure he has some stain on his nose or something.

“It's just incredible no one has recognised you yet.”

“I told you, Merlin,” Arthur says in the same lofty voice of one of his former university tutors, “people only see what they want to see.”

“Well, it's...” Merlin turns his face away, looking at the couple buying from the same stand Merlin went to. “... it's right that you should be able to be yourself. I love that you can get to be you. I like you.”

Arthur feels his ears grow hotter by the minute and finds himself thanking God his aren't as prominent as Merlin's. “Thank you, Merlin. That's... touching.”

Merlin picks himself up, wiping at his knees. “I was thinking, how about a beer? I was planning on buying you one. And one for myself too.”

“If you do you might find yourself taking a two-wheeled dive into the Thames, Merlin,” Arthur says, studying Merlin's blush. “I was supposed to get you to the station dry and ready to board the train home, wherever that is.”

“Ealdor,” Merlin supplies, jaw working. He flicks a glance at his watch, a big plastic thing that's way too colourful to look professional. “And oh my god, yeah, I've got to go. I'm so sorry.”

Arthur drinks the last of his tea and stands up too. “I'll take you to the station.”

“I can take the tube,” Merlin pre-empts him. “You don't need to take me. I don't want you spotted.”

“I’ll leave you some distance away,” Arthur says, binning the Styrofoam and picking his bike back up. “I know how to do this, don't worry.”

What Arthur doesn't know how to do is saying goodbye to Merlin. Merlin is sitting in the passenger seat twisting the hem of his shirt. “I'll send it back to you, all cleaned and ironed,” he says in the tone of a promise.

Arthur nods. “I'm binding you to it.”

Merlin huffs, folding his lower lip across the upper one. “Is this shirt worth an indecent amount of money?

“And I'll only accept it back,” Arthur continues, following his own train of thought, “if you return it to me in person.”

Merlin's face relaxes into a smile. “Okay, all right. As soon as I'm back from visiting mum.”

“Good,” Arthur says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Good.”

Merlin leans in close and smacks a kiss on Arthur's cheek. “Thank you,” he says, hand already on the car handle, “for the wonderful Friday.” Merlin's lips stretch in a lopsided, shy smile. “And the lovely bike ride.”

“You're welcome,” Arthur says, wondering whether he ought to go for a proper kiss or not.

Before he can make up his mind, Merlin's out of the car and bobbing down the street towards the station.

Arthur wishes for a moment he was a regular person able to walk Merlin all the way there.

 

**** 

 

Energised by his own success, Gwaine tramps around the outfield as if he was revelling in his first bowl of the day.

When the game starts again, Arthur cuts him to backward point; Arthur's cousin, Gareth, manages the same some minutes later, but Gwaine – and his team by extension – seems to be undaunted.

Trying to get the upper hand again Arthur trims Bors' middle stump with a hostile delivery. He directs his co-team mate, Julian, into delivering an outswinger that defeats Elyan, who's on Gwaine's team.

But none of that serves them well and Gwaine's team is in the end victorious.

On their way to the changing rooms, Gwaine slings his arm across Arthur's shoulder and says, “See, princess, a champion will always prevail.”

“Are you trying to tell me you're a champion?” Arthur snorts. “Oh, wait, no, you're trying to get me to admit you're one.”

“I did defeat you.” Gwaine ducks into the changing room, lifting his cricket whites over his head.

Arthur scowls. “Only by a margin.”

“Call it that, if you wish,” Gwaine says, stripping further and grabbing a towel. “You're still buying me a luscious pint.”

“You mean we're going to the pub?” Arthur's eyes widen and his eyes go to his watch.

“Yes,” Gwaine says, stepping out of his underwear and parading naked in the lockers. “After showers.”

“I--”

“Oh no.” Gwaine holds up a finger. “You're not getting out of buying me that pint.”

Arthur did give his word and would hate to go back on it but he can't call himself keen on spending the next however so many hours watching Gwaine getting doused. His mouth slowly drops open. “I--” he searches for the appropriate words suiting this circumstance, “will honour my debt.”

Gwaine's balls might be drawing up from standing nude in the currents of the locker room, but he's not one to be stopped from questioning Arthur, it would seem, not even in the face of such discomfort. “There's something you're not telling me.”

“Go and have a shower, Gwaine.”

Gwaine's rakes his hands up to his hips, where they come to rest. “You're most definitely hiding something.”

“You're freezing your balls off,” Arthur says, waving his arm about because he doesn't want to point.

“Yes, indeed,” Gwaine says, not even bothering to contradict him. “And that's why you'll tell me. We don't want any damage to my balls to happen. Women around the world would complain.”

Arthur can't help laughing. Relief washes to the surface, relaxing his muscles and with it his attitude towards secrecy. “I just wanted to take someone out. They're not staying in London long and... Carpe diem.”

Gwaine smirks as if he's guessed at all that went by. He probably has too but Arthur's certainly not going to confirm. “Invite them over,” he says, both arms spread out as if already welcoming Merlin.

Arthur's eyes search the floor for an answer as to that. Merlin is a very sociable person but Arthur has the feeling that he wouldn't like Arthur's circle. On the other hand Merlin has only five more days in England. “Okay, I'll ask him if he wants to drop by.”

Gwaine smiles as if he's won a second cricket match. “I'll be ducking into the shower then.”

Arthur sits on the bench, the other team members milling around him, loud in their commentary of the game. Arthur whips out his mobile and writes: _fancy coming to a pub?_ -

Merlin's answer is: _do princes do pubs?_

 _They do pubs near cricket grounds,_ Arthur is fast to answer.

_Lol, you playing cricket._

Arthur grins. _Yes_ , he writes, _I suppose that now you'll think I fit every cliché._

_I want to see this for myself. u still in whites?_

_Yes, but I won't be at the pub. About to change.  
_  
 _Still want to be there._

Arthur smiles at the screen as though it were a person. Then shakes himself because his team-mates are still around. He texts Merlin the coordinates.

Merlin appears at the pub an hour or so later. He's wearing blue which makes his eyes pop and a smile that's two parts cheeky and one part insecure. Arthur waves him over and the smile on Merlin's lips widens. In a few strides he bounds over, hand lifted in salute.

Arthur stands, grinning back, freeing a chair for Merlin.

Gwaine from his corner one, says, “Hey, Princess, aren't you introducing us?”

“Gwaine, this is Doctor Merlin Emrys,” Arthur says, sweeping his palm at Merlin. After a roll of his eyes he adds, “Merlin, try and put up with Gwaine here. I've been suffering him since my school days, I hope you can do the same for an hour or so.”

“Hey,” Gwaine says, “remember I know the truth about the Year 12 Ballerina fiasco.”

Merlin sniggers, covering his hand with his mouth as soon as he notices what he's actually doing. “What's the Year 12 Ballerina Fiasco?”

“Something Gwaine will die for revealing,” says Arthur through gritted teeth.

“I might choose to so imperil my life, princess,” Gwaine says, looking Merlin up and down as if he has already guessed – which granted he probably does – everything that has transpired between them, “so beware.”

Merlin laughs and just like that he's taken into the folds of Arthur's cricket mates. He teases Gwaine the way everyone who knows Gwaine does. He laughs at Julian's jokes, and asks the shiest one about the rules of the game so they have something to talk about.

Arthur can already tell which of his friends like Merlin -- Gareth and Owain do – and which don't. Bors seems to take an instant dislike to him, which translates to him treating Merlin as if he's the dirt under his shoes. This treatment intensifies when Merlin's background comes to the fore. It was obvious it would from the moment Merlin starts talking about his weekend visit to his working class mother.

Arthur is of a mind to intervene and tell Bors where he can stuff it, but Merlin is prompter at it and much more cutting when he says, “Oh, yes, I come from the working classes, the backbone of the nation. Quite proud of that.”

Bors goes more than slightly mauve, stands up and goes to get another pint. When he comes back, he launches into a discussion of their game that's designed to exclude Merlin. At first Merlin is silent. He surreptitiously checks his texts and Arthur can see his finger hover over the button launching the Ruzzle game.

“I have that game downloaded too. Want to play against me?”

After four games that provide certain proof of Arthur's ability at spotting words, Merlin says, “It's not fair. You go for the short meaningless words.”

“That's called strategy,” Arthur tells him, launching his browser and pointing to a page illustrating game tips.

“But shouldn't you be looking to forming long words?” Merlin asks, scowling at his results.

That,” Arthur says, snapping his fingers at Merlin's forehead, “is not the aim of the game.”

“But--”

“But but but,” Arthur parrots Merlin, laughter catching at his throat. “The truth is you're a sore loser.”

“No more than Arthur himself,” Gwaine pitches in and like that Arthur and Merlin are back in the general discussion, Arthur objecting against Gwaine's point and maintaining he's a fair player, while Gwaine lists off occasions that prompted Arthur to, according to him, pout for weeks after losing.

Merlin asks for more accounts of that, the traitor.

As Gwaine rattles off a series of anecdotes that make Arthur blush, their team mates wander off, some of them to repair home, others to the other room to have a game of pool or darts. By the time Gwaine's gone through of his most salacious stories, darkness has settled in.

“Wow, it's late,” Merlin says, flicking a look at the window.

“Did you have somewhere to be?” Arthur asks, shifting in his seat. “I'm sorry if I monopolised all your time.”

“No,” Merlin says, shaking his head and waving his hands in denial. “It's just that I thought I'd be back a bit earlier. Sefa is being kind putting me up at all and never being there is a bit rude.”

“You're right; I'll walk you.”

“You can't walk me,” Merlin says, incredulous, though Arthur can spot the longing in his voice. “You'd get the paps after you.”

What Merlin is saying makes sense. Arthur can't hide today because his presence at the cricket match is known and has been known for months, the downside of having fixed schedules. So, yes, getting spotted wouldn't help. Arthur does wish though he could walk Merlin home. Some of that must have shown on his face, for Gwaine says, “I'll decoy walk with you.”

Merlin reddens and Arthur stammers, but at the end of the day they accept Gwaine's proposal even while never acknowledging its function or their relation to one another. As they exit the pub, Arthur is sighted by a couple of journalists following him at a distance. Arthur's bodyguards are off duty today but none of what they're doing seems untoward.

Hands in his pocket, Gwaine falls a bit back so that Arthur can walk abreast with Merlin. “Sorry about this,” he says, wincing at the flashes of the cameras going off. “I realise this is not something you'd seen as being part of your day today.”

“No, that's fine.” Merlin frowns. “What I mean is it's not fine for you. It must be horrible and I don't know how you don't snap at them and tell them to fuck off. But I can put up with it.”

They walk awhile in silence and the most that gets said is silly nonsense they two of them conjure up and that Gwaine snorts at. Eventually they reach Sefa's place.

“Well, we're here,” Merlin says, pointing at the building's door. “I should go.”

Arthur is still aware of people following them. He sticks his hand out. “I hope I can see you again before you leave again.”

Merlin takes his hand, though he doesn't shake it as much hold it within his. “I'd love to see you.”

Before Arthur can fix them a date Merlin has disappeared into the building.

“You've got it bad, mate,” Gwaine comments as he turns around to walk them back. “You've got it bad.”

 

***** 

 

Over the four remaining days of Merlin's stay Arthur and Merlin's see each other three times. On the first day Arthur sends a car for Merlin just so they can keep their incognito. Merlin comes bearing a DVD and a bottle of wine. Under the mistaken impression that Arthur likes Hitchcock (probably indirectly suggested to him by his choice of plays perhaps), he brings Rope.

Halfway through the film they stop watching and have sex on the sofa, Merlin bare legged, Arthur sucking his cock. When Merlin's done, Arthur guides his hand lower so it can wrap around him. Arthur comes with his nose buried in Merlin's neck and a loud exhalation.

On day two Arthur sends Merlin invitations to a charity dinner. He comes with his friend Sefa and manages to also do a measure of work by convincing some of the guests to donate to DA. But when Arthur can sneak off they find themselves kissing in a broom cupboard as if they're horny adolescents.

The third day is a quiet day. Arthur's just made it back from a sporting event and he tells his driver to pick Merlin up. They drive around in circles so they can talk in a non-public space. Tomorrow Merlin goes. By doing so he will put thousands of miles between them.

“I'll be sorry not to be able to see you,” Arthur says, looking at the partition glass between himself and the driver, and hating he's having to have this conversation with him present.

“And here I was thinking you'd be glad to see the back of me,” Merlin says, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “No subterfuge. Only meeting proper people.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Arthur says, swallowing his emotion. “I liked it. Seeing you nearly every day.”

“I liked it too.”

The engine rumbles quietly as the city lights blur past. “I hope that when you come back...”

“You'll have entirely forgotten me by the time I come back,” Merlin says, jocularly but with an underlying tension to his voice.

That tension prompts Arthur to say, “No, you've got it wrong I won't have.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, his tone cautionary.

“No,” Arthur says, putting his hand on top of Merlin's, the leather of the seat crackling under the weight. “Let me speak. I hope that when you come back you'll be wanting to do more of this. I know I will and I just--”

“Okay then,” Merlin says, bobbing his head in assent, “if you haven't forgotten me, then we'll be doing more of this.”

“I'll keep you to it,” Arthur says, the lights of the city flashing past.

Merlin leaves the day after.

 

***** 

 

Snow drifts against the window panes, congealing in new patterns of hoar and frost, like a cobweb made of milk threads and gauze. The fire crackles in the fireplace, flames leaping high, a fine contrast to the core of sleet whirling outside.

When his phone buzzes Arthur puts down his book and glances at the screen. “ _i'm in the UK,_ ” the text says.

Arthur scoots up. “ _where are you?”_ he types, planning to summon his driver to get Merlin.

_'oh, very long story, but i'm at my mum's.'_

Arthur wants to know about the long story but more than that he wants to see Merlin in the flesh. It's been six months. _“i'm @ Sandringham,_ ” he texts, fingers flying quickly over the on-screen keyboard. “ _come here. It's private._ ”

_“do I just drive up there and they'll let me in?”_

_“you can.”_

_“Then I'll see you in a while.”_

No more texts come from Merlin but Arthur assumes it's because he's driving over. Since a storm's being going on outside Arthur doesn't text back either. The last thing he wants is for Merlin to have an accident because of him.

Instead he bounds upstairs and tells the staff to prepare a room. They blink at him in surprise but nobody says anything. Arthur will have to tell his father about Merlin but for now there's no need to. Uther's out having his customary Boxing Day walk. It always takes him hours.

Two hours later Merlin turns up at his door. He looks different. Vastly so. He's thinner and has grown a bristly beard. Snow flakes sit on top of his head in a scattering that's like dust. His hands are red just like the tip of his nose. The rest of his face though is shrouded in pallor.

Even through there's probably staff around, Arthur pulls Merlin into his arms, burying his head in his neck, smelling the smell of him. That and of pine from outside. Merlin's shoulders, as wide as they used to be, are bonier to the touch, as if all there is to him is soft layers of wool under which a few sticks in the shape of shoulder-blades stick out. “Come inside,” Arthur says, dragging Merlin in and rubbing his arms up and down. “What the hell happened?”

“Uh, nothing?” Merlin says, shivering as he bustles in. “I just missed Christmas Eve because my flight was delayed.”

“Oh sorry about that,” Arthur says, brushing snowflakes off Merlin's head. “I knew you were looking forward to it.”

“My mum was the one who was the most disappointed,” Merlin says, lifting his shoulders up to his ears. “She had cooked so much and by the time I got there a day later all I was fit for was sleeping.”

“You should have said.” Arthur rubs warmth in Merlin's hands, which are red to the knuckles and feel like icicles. “I wouldn't have imposed by asking you over.”

“I was glad you did,” Merlin says, ducking his head. “It's been a long time and I missed you. When you asked me over I couldn't even believe you actually wanted to see me.”

“I told you once already,” Arthur says, wondering how Merlin could have read him so wrong as to think he'd have forgotten him in a trice, “that I would be waiting for you to come back.”

“And you did,” says Merlin, surprise colouring his tone.

“Yes.” Arthur thrusts his chin out, daring Merlin to deny his attachment. “Now come upstairs,” he says, you need to warm up properly.

Arthur guides Merlin to his room and strips him of his jacket.

“You don't have a hot water bottle, do you?” says Merlin, shrinking in on himself the moment he loses his jacket.

“No,” Arthur says, his hands falling to Merlin's hips, his mouth a breath's away from Merlin's. “But I can think up other ways to warm you.”

“Really?” Merlin asks, his mouth twitching just before he breaks into a smile. “I wonder what ways.”

“Maybe this can work,” says Arthur, brushing his lips against Merlin. “What do you think?”

Merlin sucks on his mouth for a moment or two. “I'll have to sample more of this to be sure it's working.”

“Will you?” Arthur asks, swiping his tongue across Merlin's lips, taking both of his hands and placing them on the sides of Merlin's neck and face, drawing their mouths closer.

They kiss and Arthur only stops it when his jaw aches. But they don't separate. Merlin grips his shoulders while Arthur's hands tighten their hold on Merlin, showing less restraint in touching, stroking Merlin's back, and smoothing the skin at his nape.

It's been a while since Arthur last touched Merlin. In a way he'd forgotten what it was like. During his time alone he'd remembered that he'd been happy with Merlin and that he'd felt he had a sparkling rapport going with him that wasn't similar to anything he'd experienced before. But he'd forgotten how much his heart can actually speed up when he touches Merlin or how he loses all rationality when he's around.

He'd forgotten how much Merlin makes him different, better. He kisses him again, just a soft press of his mouth against Merlin's before asking, “Are you too tired to come to bed?”

“No,” Merlin says, pushing him towards it. “And you're forgetting how much I need to be warmed.”

“Is that a medical emergency?” Arthur asks, his hands digging at Merlin's waist as Merlin walks him backwards.

“You could say that, yeah.” Merlin kisses him slowly, angling his head just a notch to the side and stroking his thumb along the line of Arthur’s jaw.

Arthur's heart beats insistently against his chest, ramming against it, opening floods of want that sit hot and tight in his gut. With little prompting he opens his mouth to let Merlin's tongue in to playfully graze his and releases a shock of a sob. Needing to do something, anything, to bring them closer he twists his hands into Merlin's hair, fingers shaking just a little, and takes over the kiss. 

Smiling around it, Merlin pushes him down to sit on the bed.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, enjoying Merlin's renewed kiss, how he and Merlin fit. It might be too early to say this but kissing Merlin is like coming home. Whenever he does the pieces that form the puzzle of his life seem to fall into place and suddenly make sense. It's not just the kisses either – Arthur's had his fair share of those, of sex – it's everything about Merlin that he appreciates: the way his lips curve around his, soft but almost never tentative. The way his body is. His words, his mind, his everything.

One kiss follows on the heels of another. Hands on his hips, Merlin tugs at his woollen jumper, pulling it off. Together, they undo the buttons on Arthur's shirt, Arthur balling it up and throwing it over his shoulders.

"So unroyal," Merlin tells him, stifling a laugh.

"I want you," Arthur says, voice roughened in equal measure by lust and affection.

Merlin shrugs out of his clothes fairly quickly, revealing a body that is both the same and different from the one Arthur remembers. While by and large his frame is obviously pretty much the same, Merlin's lost a lot of weight so that now his ribs show and his legs look twiggier. "God, Merlin," Arthur says, "how stressed out have you actually been?"

"Some," Merlin admits, his lips thinning. "No matter now. I'm home and will put all the weight back on."

"Yes, but for how long?" Arthur wonders out loud, knowing that Merlin is the type of person who will just jump onto his next job, his next humanitarian mission, no matter what state he is in.

"A few weeks till I know whether I'm getting that other position or no."

Arthur nods. He's aware of this. He can wish Merlin would take some time out for himself. He can probably pussyfoot around the subject and give Merlin unsolicited advice about it, but he can't get Merlin to spend a few months down time with him. Merlin wouldn't want to give up his job, not even for a short while.

"I'll take it upon myself to look after you while you wait."

Merlin grins, "Yeah?" he says, getting rid of the last of his clothes. "Starting now?"

"Starting now," Arthur says breathless, kicking off his shoes to lie horizontally on the bed.

Merlin slips next to him on his side. Arthur scoots closer, pushing his cock into Merlin's palm, till it's heavier and they're both panting, Merlin with high colour on his cheeks, a lick of it bridging his nose. With a laugh Merlin rolls them, flipping Arthur on his back so that Arthur's hands go to splay low on his back, Merlin's palms skating up from Arthur’s belly to his chest.

"Still in the mood?" Merlin asks him.

“Always,” Arthur says, not hiding the truth at all. "I'm always in the mood for you."

“You don't know how much I appreciate that,” Merlin says, just as Arthur flips them again in a strange wrestling-like move that has Merlin in stitches, laughing, then kissing Arthur, then laughing again before he wraps himself around Arthur, hooking his foot behind Arthur’s ankle. Arthur allows the momentum to do its trick so that Merlin can drag him down and on top of him.

The blankets tangled around them sigh and sough as they move one against the other, Arthur sliding on top, Merlin arching up, their cocks grazing each other and driving Arthur crazy with friction. But it's still not enough. There's fabric in the way, which stops them from feeling it properly. So Arthur wiggles free of his trousers, Merlin giving him a hand by pushing them down.

"If you move for a sec," Merlin then says, "I can get mine off too."

While Merlin arches up and levers off his trousers, Arthur lands beside him. When Merlin is fully naked, Arthur presses into his side again before lowering himself down on top of Merlin, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other closing in a fist around his flank. Kissing and laving the skin he's reddened, he rakes his teeth over the tendons standing out on Merlin' neck.

When Merlin moans, Arthur feels a thrill of power run through him. “Like this? I like the sounds you make. It's like you're not--"

"Not what?" Merlin prompts him even as he digs his heels into the mattress, arching off it in a curve that's for a moment so sharp Arthur's afraid he'll break.

"Not unreachable Doctor Emrys."

"Unreachable?" Merlin gently chuckles against his neck, the reverberations making Arthur's toes curl.

"Untouchable..."

"I'm not," Merlin says, his fingers skimming along the length of Arthur's upper arms. "I'm a very open, down to earth guy. More down to earth than a real life Prince that's for sure.

Arthur slides his hand around Merlin's throat and gathers him close, connecting their lips again, before Merlin opens and Arthur finds himself licking into his mouth, all thought or protest forgotten.

Right now there's nothing Arthur wants less han to explain fleeting thoughts and sensations. Merlin is here, warm and loving, kissing Arthur like he can't get enough and Arthur could never stop responding, not even if he thought it best to. But there's no reason to think it better not to yield, so he continues, moving his body against Merlin's, taking up the rhythm he let off to get rid of his trousers.

Saying, "Let me," Arthur reaches for Merlin's cock.

“I'll never willingly stop you,” Merlin says, squeezing the words out between one pant and the next.

Arthur bumps his nose against Merlin's, cocking his head to the side, feeling Merlin's shaky exhalations on his face, his fingertips slipping up his spine, playing scales along the bumps of it.

Arthur's fingers close around his cock, moving along the length, while he rubs his own against Merlin's thigh. The friction against his skin, the moment when his cock catches against Merlin's, is enough to change Arthur's world, shrink it to a tiny dot where there's only the feel of Merlin's close hot skin and the supple responsiveness of him.

"Arthur," Merlin says, pushing into Arthur's touch.

Arthur for his part strokes him more forcefully

Eyes slitting and losing focus, Merlin presses his thumb into the skin at the base of Arthur's neck, his hips snapping up and up into his hand. “Do it like that, yes.”

“You don't want me to go faster?” Arthur asks, low, pushing the words out with extreme effort since he's blacking out with pleasure too.

“No, no, just like this.”

Arthur maintains the pace, going at the speed Merlin wants. The muscles in his belly tighten as he toes the line of orgasm, reining it in because it's been so long without Merlin and he doesn't want this to be over so quickly, his time with Merlin being just a collection of small moments Arthur wants to add to and never subtract from.

They caress and kiss each other, their bodies twining, until there's no more postponing to be done. Merlin's fingers dig in deep in Arthur's skin right over the swell of his arse.

Arthur bites down on the apex of Merlin's Adam’s apple, sliding his fist up and down Merlin’s prick until Merlin's body locks tight and warm come splashes over his palm and knuckles.

With his hand wet and slick with Merlin's come Arthur pulls on his own cock, a few twists and jerks and then he's soaring too, his heart stopping and then bumping more loudly than before, his spine over-heating, his come mixing with Merlin's to coat his hand.

With a moan Arthur lands on his side next to Merlin, thrumming with contentment, his muscles relaxing and feeling pretty much like overcooked pasta.

Next to him Merlin stretches too, looking content and mischievous, the lines on his face the result of smiling too much rather than tiredness. Arthur wishes it were always so. He doesn't voice that wish. Instead he says, "It's nearly dinner time. Father will have made it back. That means we should probably get a bit more presentable and go down to dinner. It's usually at half past seven."

Merlin swallows and Arthur fancies he can almost hear his saliva go down. "You mean the King of England."

"Yeah," Arthur says, "that's who my father is."

"No, I knew that," says Merlin, burying his nose in the duvet and partially concealing his face. "It's just that it's one thing to know that he is." Merlin's hand comes up to describe lazy circles in the air. "And that you are. And quite another to meet him when I'm at his place, uninvited--"

"I invited you," Arthur says, grabbing Merlin's hand to drop a kiss on his knuckles.

"After I've just shagged his son and reek of it too."

Arthur bursts out laughing and does it so loud he fears the entire palace wing must have heard. “You have a point, I'll concede.”

After a shower, they go downstairs.

They meet Uther on the landing. At sight of Merlin he double takes. “Arthur, I didn't know we had guests.”

Arthur goes rigid, presenting a straight back the way he does when he's supposed to pose officially. “This is Merlin Emrys, sir,” Arthur says. “He's just back from working in Sierra Leone for a charity I sponsor and...”

“Which charity?” Uther asks, as if that's the main focus of his curiosity rather than Merlin being there at all.

“Doctors Alliance,” both Arthur and Merlin say at the same time, both slapping a 'sir' on at the end.

“Interesting,” Father says, pivoting so he's facing the dining room door. “We'll discuss Merlin's vocation at dinner with your uncle.”

Father keeps his promise. Once the hors d’oeuvre are done with, he starts questioning Merlin about DA, about his relationship with his mentor Gaius Paterson, and his experience in Sierra Leone. Uncle Agravaine pitches in with nearly as many questions, saying he's interested in charities. While Merlin goes into detail explaining the ins and outs of his job, he doesn't add the personal touch he let Arthur see when it was Arthur asking questions.

“And that's why the group needs help,” Merlin concludes, his voice a bit hoarse because he hasn't stopped talking in a while. “So that one day DA's help isn't needed anymore.”

“Laudable outlook,” Uncle Agravaine says, dabbing at his lips with his napkin, the fabric coming off stained with wine.

“Yes, indeed,” Father agrees. “Your friend is showing admirable commitment to his cause.”

For a moment Arthur's left breathless, not knowing what to say because this is certainly a first. Father never likes his friends, not even the titled ones. Uther Pendragon thinks Gwaine a scapegrace, Geraint an idiot (admittedly he's one) and Gareth free of any trace of personality. “Yes. Merlin is great that way.”

“It's good to know you're mingling with people with their heads on their shoulders for once, that is all, Arthur,” Uther says, signalling the butler for the second course.

“Of course, Father.”

The topic changes to Opera. Since Merlin knows nothing about it and Arthur couldn't care less, they leave it to Arthur's father and uncle.

Arthur for his part falls in a stunned, contented mood that lasts all evening long. 

 

*****

 

“So it's New Year's Eve,” Arthur says when the morning of the 31st dawns bright on them. “How are you planning on celebrating?”

Merlin rolls in bed. “I was thinking I'd make a quick dash to Sefa's New Year bash and then come back early to be with you when midnight strikes.”

Arthur runs his hand down Merlin's arm, then back again, going against the grain. “Why would you do that?”

“To be with you, silly,” Merlin says, his lips soft around Arthur's.

“You can be with me and go to your friend's party at the same time, idiot,” Arthur says, rounding a kiss on Merlin's lips.

“You're not joking?” says Merlin, his eyes wide with surprise. “You really can come?”

“Of course I can,” Arthur says, using his mock-lofty tone. “I'm not a recluse.”

Merlin's kiss is deeper than the ones that went before. “Love you, you know.”

Arthur's heart needs kick-starting after that.

Sefa turns out to be a pretty twenty-five year old with brown hair and kind eyes. When she opens the door to find Merlin and Arthur on her doorstep she closes it on their faces.

“You sure we got the right flat, Merlin?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, grimacing at him before trying the doorbell again. “That was Sefa by the way.”

“Cordial girl.”

The door reopens. Sefa is cupping her mouth, her cheeks red. “I'm sorry,” she stammers. “I was trying to establish whether I was hallucinating.”

“You didn't tell her?” Arthur guesses, cocking his head at Merlin.

Merlin's shoulders lift like a defensive cat's back. “At first I didn't think you wanted her to know and then I thought it would just be easier to break the ice if she just met you, normally.”

Sefa kicks Merlin's shin. “You could have warned me.”

“If my presence here is less than welcome we can go,” says Arthur, trying to make up for Merlin's faux pas.

“No, oh my god, no!” Sefa says, nervously bouncing on her toes. “I didn't mean to turn out the heir to the throne!”

“You don't owe me you hospitality, Miss--”

“Oh, shit,” says Sefa, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him inside, “I was just surprised, that's all, your grace--” Sefa winces. “Did I get that wrong? I got it from Downton.”

“Never mind getting titles right,” Arthur says, offering Sefa the bottle he brought along. “Call me, Arthur, please.”

“Sorry about, that,” Merlin whispers as Sefa drags them into her lunge.

The reaction there is pretty much the same as it was with Sefa. Some of the guests stop and stare. A couple shriek, and one takes a pic of him Arthur will later ask the person to delete. Nobody speaks to him, not directly, though all eyes are on him.

Arthur takes the sofa and folds his hands together.

Merlin sinks down next to him, “They'll thaw.”

“Mmm,” Arthur says, twiddling his thumbs as he does his level best not to hear the hushed talk that seems to be having him as its subject. “I suppose so.”

Though Arthur's not positive at first that that's going to happen, he's proved wrong. Subtly, Merlin moves over to his friends, dragging Arthur with him. He starts asking them about their latest escapades. “Hey, Gilli, I saw you tagged that hot blond in your Facebook photo: what's up with that?”

“Oh, it's a long story, mate,” Gilli says, only to launch in the same long story he seemingly wanted to avoid explaining a moment before.

Arthur makes a comment as to how he too once had trouble talking to a person he liked. “So I just started giving parties in the hopes they'd come round.”

“You did?” Gilli squawks. “You too I mean?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “I was in my first year at Cambridge and it just... happened, I guess.”

After that conversation flows more easily. They ask him if being royal doesn't help him dating.

“I bet that with that title of yours you're on the fast track to scoring,” a mate of Gilli says, to a chorus of laughter.

“Have you ever bagged a real life princess?” Gilli promptly asks.

Arthur smiles. “If I told you I'd have to kill you.”

“Do they still do that?” Gilli's mate asks of the room.

“Yes,” Merlin deadpans, “they have James Bond on speed dial.”

“Really?” Gilli's mate asks, eyes round.

Sefa comes over, hip nudging him. “Yeah, you idiot, they called Daniel Craig.”

Everybody laughs and Arthur feels the ice is breaking. What looked like a chore when he first came in doesn't anymore and spending the rest of the night with Merlin's friends doesn't seem like a catastrophe waiting to happen, featuring him spending New Year's eve stranded on a stranger's sofa with no one but Merlin to talk to.

In fact there's dancing -- he engages in a spot of salsa – drinking, and laughter. As the champagne flows, they all squeeze in on Sefa's balcony to see if they can see the fireworks. Arthur himself spies an explosion of blue to the east that lights up the sky on the heels of a fanfare of purples.

Though he's among Merlin's friends he can't be as open as he wishes, he can't kiss Merlin on the lips and wrap his body around his. It's early days to make a statement like that, he supposes. But he can take his hand and squeeze it surreptitiously, asking very low, “Promise me that whatever happens, wherever you go, you'll be with me on midnight of the next New Year's eve.”

Merlin's fingers curls around his, wrapped ever so tight around them. “I can promise you that,” he says, as bright golden lights limn the horizon.

 

**** 

 

Merlin gets the job he's been wanting since he was in Sierra Leone, a medical officer post based in Timergara, Pakistan. Since the job requires a new set of skills Merlin is both ecstatic and nervous. He's going to work Accident and Emergency and that is new for him. So he prepares for that. But there are also other contingencies he needs to be ready for, like learning the local language.

During the weeks leading up to his departure he always has his head buried deep in Urdu language books. He gives Pashtu a try too but he is struggling much more visibly with it.

While Merlin studies, Arthur sees to his official duties, but he makes sure to always spend the night at Merlin's rented flat if he can.

Merlin falls asleep early and wanders his place with his book in his hand, murmuring words Arthur doesn't understand.

He has more stamina than he had after he'd returned from Africa and he puts on more weight, but his battle against Urdu makes him more irritable than usual.

Arthur has to take his book from his hands and drag him to bed just to get him to relax a little.

Only once the book has been removed and carefully deposited on the night stand, does Merlin smile and say, “Sorry, I've been a prat. I haven't asked how your day was.”

“Oh I shook lots of hands today,” Arthur says, as Merlin puts his head in his lap. “That's all that happened to me.”

“There must be more,” Merlin says, purring as Arthur threads his fingers through his hair, separating the strands.

“I read out a speech they wrote for me,” Arthur says, remembering his afternoon. “My delivery was very good.”

“I'm sure,” Merlin says, kissing his chest through Arthur's shirt. “Have I said I like your voice?”

“Posh accent and all?”

Merlin nods decisively. “Posh accent and all. You should read out stories to me.”

“I will, I will read one thousand and one stories out to you.”

Merlin locks their hands together. “We don't have a thousand nights.”

“I'm afraid not,” Arthur says, leaning down so he can kiss Merlin upside down, trying to push his tongue in Merlin's mouth despite the angle.

Merlin chuckles into the kiss.

They spend the following weeks together on the down low. Arthur visiting Merlin, Merlin getting to see him when Arthur is in a social setting. While photos of the two of them get out none is ever compromising so Merlin just gets dubbed as Prince Arthur's commoner friend.

The tenor of the press about Arthur has improved over time; the mocking articles, lightly taking digs at his lifestyle have steadily decreased. The worst they have to say about him nowadays is a complaint against the money going into Arthur's thirtieth birthday bash.

The truth is the bash is a cover up and something Arthur would have gladly avoided. But it's a good excuse for having Merlin there and Merlin even postpones leaving for Pakistan by two days just to be with him.

Gwaine organises the thing, decks his own place in Surrey up to the gills and gives the party of the century. There's music, models, and booze. Two entire wings of the house are dedicated to the party, being decorated as they are with festoons of garlands. The place has become party central and all guests are having the time of their lives, or so it seems.

Gwaine entertains an actress called Elena all night long while his guests spill on the lawn and dance as though the gathering were a witches' Sabbat.

Merlin and Arthur steal into a copse close by. Arthur pushes Merlin onto the grass and covers him with his body. It's too cold for them to strip naked so all that goes are their belts. They lower each other's trousers and wrap stiff hands around each other's erections, the only form of heat coming from the hot friction of their cocks, their pushing into each other's grip.

The music drowns their grunts of release.

Merlin leaves two days later. It's mid February by then.

 

*****

 

“Extend the invitation to Merlin,” Arthur says, throwing a sock at Gwaine.

“Merlin?” Gwaine says, taking a swig of beer as he flips through the pages of a porn mag. “Wasn't he in... wherever he is?”

“Merlin's coming back next week,” Arthur says, remembering the staticky phone call Merlin made. “And by the way, shouldn't you give up those skin mags entirely now that you're getting so close to getting married?”

Gwaine wets his fingers and makes a great show of turning the page, “Ellie has her own porn collection and approves of mine. We exchange vintage numbers too.”

“Of course.” Arthur snorts, laying his legs on Gwaine's cluttered coffee table and crossing his ankles. “It figured you would find your soul mate.”

“I didn't so much find her as stumble upon her,” Gwaine says, smiling lewdly at the page that's got his attention, “but yeah.”

Arthur steals a crisp from a packet Gwaine left lying open on the coffee table, hoping, probably against hope, that it's not been there for months on end. “Rotten luck.”

“How about you?” Gwaine asks, casting his magazine aside now that it's been carefully perused. “Any luck?”

“You know I haven't lately.” The last time he got with someone was when Merlin was here for his birthday. He hadn't looked around for other partners since, quite content with his own company. “I'm fine.”

Gwaine searches his eyes and for a moment; the clown mask he always wears drops and Arthur can see Gwaine is as serious as he ever gets to be. It's strange that he should see Gwaine in this rare mood, but so it is. “I can see that you're more relaxed now, going steadier, but aren't you lonely?”

Arthur downright lies. “No.”

“I just mean that I know you were happy with Merlin and you're going to be happy when he comes back,” Gwaine says, waving a hand about as if that might make his words appear much more nonchalant than they are. “I just wonder what you're going to do in the in between phases.”

“What I always do,” Arthur says, without the intention of lying this time. It's up to Gwaine to interpret that as he pleases. “You know me.”

“No, I don't.” Gwaine shakes his head, his hair flip-flopping with the movement. “Not this new you.”

“”Gwaine, what are you driving at?” says Arthur, exasperated by Gwaine's choice of conversation.

“Just that maybe it's all right to let go,” Gwaine says, arching an eyebrow. “To have fun doing something meaningless.”

“You mean someone meaningless,” Arthur says, decoding Gwaine's words for meaning.

“Yeah, perhaps,” says Gwaine, worrying his lip. “Maybe I mean that. Maybe I'm advising you to fuck around.”

Arthur stands and moves over to the window overlooking the ample acreage extending behind Gwaine's ancestral home. “I don't think I'm that person anymore.”

Gwaine laughs boisterously, that rich laugh of his that makes people want to be merry right alongside him. “My stag party is going to be entirely wasted on you.”

 

****

 

The lights are low and veering from red to purple. The room they're in is in the basement of a London club Gwaine has been known to frequent. The space, though, has been made to look like anything but. There's gymnasium like scaffolding all around the length of the room; old school gym equipment is strewn across it. Pommel horses, wooden rings and fitness ladders are all featured except they're being used as backdrop for a colourful group of exotic dancers Gwaine's friend Perceval chose as tonight's main entertainment.

The girls take their clothes off with elaborate, downright athletic dancing moves; doubling over, doing splits, bending while throwing cascading hair forwards, fondling their breasts in front of Gwaine's howling guests.

These guests are all Gwaine's friends – a multitude of them, from people Gwaine had met while in his nappies down to a few lads he apparently got acquainted with last week at the gym. They are scattered across leather booths, clapping and nursing their drinks.

A few of them are so lucky as to get some girls in their laps though. As a matter of course, it's Gwaine, as the groom to be, who gets all the attention, one girl kissing his neck, another his mouth while she gyrates on his lap.

“They went all out,” Merlin comments, or rather half yells, to be heard over the music, top forty hits Gwaine's sure not to like but willing dance to resounding across the room.

“Um, yes,” Arthur says, lifting his beer and drinking a pull. The party is so over the top you do need some alcohol to appreciate it. “Gwaine is the ultimate lad's lad, the epitome of... a dandy. He's a bit larger than life, if you know what I mean. I suppose his friends wanted to have the party reflect that.”

“It looks like a perverted version of,” Merlin says looking around, “I don't know, a boarding's school gym?”

“Not from my days.”

A sepia laser beam hits Merlin in the face making him scrunch up his nose. “No, I get that. I just thought that it's a bit--”

“Over the top?”

Merlin snorts through his nose. “Yes, that and like a masturbatory fantasy.”

“That's what it's meant to be,” Arthur says, as a girl who's missing her bra but not her frilly skirt lands in his lap.

“Hello there,” she says, undulating a bit, “did I hear the magic words?”

Arthur tips his head back and swallows. Having the girl swaying in his lap doesn't help with Arthur's self control. He's only human. “I, erm,” he says, gulping again. “I'm very flattered you chose to...”

The girl kisses him, lewd and deep and as she does Merlin guffaws.

The moment Arthur is allowed to come up for breath he says, “I'm with my boyfriend here.”

It doesn't occur to him until after he's said it that he's revealed a secret he'd kept close to his chest for more than a year and that he's spilled the truth to a complete stranger. He doesn't know whether the girl believes him or not, whether she thinks he's merely trying to avoid contact with her or, more generally, a scandal, but, she pats his chest and stands. “Of course, dear,” she says, the tassels on her skirt swishing as she backs off. “You should have said.”

The girl saunters over to the next guest, one of Gwaine's cousins. Arthur feels the heat of Merlin's eyes on him. “I guess I should have asked before saying that.”

Merlin's expression is entirely cryptic. There's a smile on his face but Arthur can't tell whether it's a covert pissed off smile or the legitimate article.

“Maybe I'm secretly pleased,” Merlin says, climbing onto his lap and sucking on his lips. “That you think I'm that. Oh and you taste like cherry now.”

“Is that bad?” Arthur asks, wrapping his arms around Merlin and nuzzling his lips.

“No, actually,” he says, craning his neck to find the girl from before. “Maybe I should call her back.”

“Uh, no,” Arthur says, turning Merlin's head with his hand. “Public threesomes are best avoided.”

Merlin kisses the side of his mouth. “Didn't mean to lead you astray.”

“But you did mean to lead me on?”

“Yes, sir,” Merlin says, taking his lips to his neck, “I did.”

Arthur pushes his hips into Merlin's touch. “Can't say I don't like it.”

Merlin bears down, giving him a hint of friction.

“Then let's just dare.”

By the end of it Arthur comes in his trousers, teeth gritted so he won't make any noises, his head thrown back in orgasm. He consoles himself with the notion Gwaine's wouldn't have been a good stag party if he hadn't.

 

****

 

Leon knocks on his door. “Your Highness?”

Arthur puts down his crossword puzzle together with his pencil. “Yes, Leon?”

“Your father wants to talk to you.”

Arthur raises a brow. “At eight in the morning?”

“That's right,” says Leon, hiding a grimace.

“What's happened, Leon?” Arthur says, turning in his chair.

“He saw the papers,” says Leon, pushing up his eyebrows as though that ought to make sense to Arthur. “The morning papers.”

“So?”

“I was instructed not to address this, sir.”

There's nothing for it but for Arthur to go find his father.

Uther is sitting behind his desk in his study. He'd make the perfect portrait of a king if he wasn't wearing slippers and his dressing gown, something that Arthur has never witnessed before. Uther always dresses before leaving his room. A pile of papers ranging from tabloids to rags sits on the surface mahogany surface before him.

“Father,” Arthur says, mouth slipping slightly open as he observes the array of publications on his father's desk.

“Arthur,” Uther says, moving the papers aside. “I infer you haven't had a look at the morning papers yet.”

“No,” Arthur says. After waking he'd breakfasted and then done the crossword from an old paper he had lying about. “Is there something about me in them?”

“You could say so,” Father says, turning one paper upside down so Arthur can view the first page. Splattered on it, there's a photo of him and Merlin kissing. Given the white leather sofa behind them Arthur knows where the picture was taken: at Gwaine's stag do. “Any idea how this ended up here?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, clenching his fists. “I was at Lord Goring's stag party.”

“I see,” Uther says, lips so compressed they look tight. “If I were you I'd try and close down on the source of the leak. They're no friend to you.”

Arthur sinks into a chair though he's been given no permission to do so. “That's impossible, sir. Perceval invited quite a lot of people, some of whom Gwaine doesn't even know well.”

One for always seeing the practical side of things, Uther nods. “Then knowing you weren't among real friends, you shouldn't have indulged.”

Arthur stands again. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn—“

Uther puts his palm up, gesturing for him to sit again. “As much as I want to reprimand you for having being thoughtless about acting the way you have when in public I'll have to say it could be worse.”

Arthur doesn't see how that could be. He's back to square one and right where he was after the threesome scandal came out. “How?”

“You may think I haven't noticed, Arthur,” Father says in a calmer, less stern voice than Arthur expected. “But I have. You no longer party so hard that we have to come up with an excuse for your habits. You're giving more thought to your charity sponsorships. You've calmed down in a way and I can't be too harsh on you.”

“You can't?” Arthur asks, not sure he's hearing this right, that he's not actually dreaming. “You're not disappointed?”

“I'm certainly less than pleased that this came out,” he says, tapping the newspaper page displaying the blurry photo that's revealed what Arthur does in private moments, “but I do not feel it's right to blame you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Arthur's says even though he's not positive that's the best response in this particular situation. Arthur blurts this out though, grateful. The weight on his chest lifts and suddenly he can breathe. It's quite a heady sensation.

“Now, Arthur, don't be silly, please,” Father says, sinking back in his chair. “There's no need to thank me for acknowledging the state of things.”

“No, sir.” Arthur shakes his head no.

“Because we'll have to see we do some damage control,” Father says, tapping his fingers on his desk.

Arthur bobs his head though he already dreads what he will have to say to make up for the leak. His blood starts pumping so much quicker he can hear the pounding of it in his veins. Guessing at what might be required of him in regard to Merlin makes him cold. “Merlin is not at fault.”

“I don't think he is,” Father, surprisingly, agrees. “I actually think that young man has been a good influence on you.”

“You do?” Arthur's eyes must be rounding comically. He can't even blink. “You don't think Merlin is a bad friend or--”

“I think you may safely label him as more than a friend, considering the nature of your escapade with him,” Father says, once again eyeing the picture of him with Merlin in his lap. “I also think that despite this your relations with him haven't sent you spiralling into insubordination, rather the contrary.”

Though Arthur doesn't like being talked about as though he's a little tin soldier, he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “So you're not about to ask me to give Merlin up?”

“He's been a steadying influence, as I see it,” Father says, slowly, speculatively. “So, no, I'm not asking for that.”

“You're not?” Arthur needs confirmation. He may dread father going back on his word, but he needs to hear that again, find out if there's a catch. In his experience there always is.

“No, Arthur,” Father says, releasing a long breath. “I think he's tapped the potential you always had to be an excellent role model and a good person. You're doing well with your duties and he hasn't been an obstacle to them. All in all, I'm content with the relationship, so content that I would urge you to continue it, even formalise it.”

Arthur's head feels so light for a moment he feels like he's floating. If he didn't have his hands around the chair's armrest he'd think he was. “You're telling me that I should--” Arthur feels warmth leak through him, expanding from the inside out. “That I should propose?”

Father hums thoughtfully. “I'm not opposing that.”

Arthur smiles though Father sees fit to barge in on his happiness by saying, “Especially in view of this new scandal. Saying you were kissing a friend at a stag party is one thing. Saying that you were kissing your fiancé at a stag party while everyone else was indulging in baser activities has a better ring to it.”

Arthur doesn't even care that Father is already manipulating the event in a manner that would best suit the image of the monarchy; he just wants to get out of here before Uther can change his mind. “Definitely,” he says, trying not to sound too eager, fearing that if he does Father will rethink his stance. “You're right.”

“This is a new attitude coming from you, Arthur,” Father says, narrowing his eyes at him. “In the past you would have sought to contradict me.”

“I rarely did that,” Arthur blurts out.

“In deed if not in words.”

Arthur doesn't want to go there. His father would never understand the reasons behind his subversion – his always feeling caged – and Arthur is not about to endanger today's victory by broaching a subject that displeases his father. “Well, if you see any change in me, ascribe it to Merlin's positive influence.”

“I'd rather hope this change springs from you, even if it was prompted by a positive relationship,” Father says.

Arthur halts in his tracks. Since he was rising when Father expressed that opinion, he finds himself half bent over the chair, neither out of it nor sitting down. “It does,” he says, straightening. “This is me taking responsibility.”

“Good, Arthur,” Father says, with an air of finality.

Arthur backs towards the door. “Have a good morning, sir.”

Uther dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Just remember to drop by Mr Monmouth to develop a PR strategy to deal with this press horror.”

“I will, sir,” Arthur says, before practically running out of the study.

 

**** 

 

Arthur shifts from foot to foot as he waits for the door to open. Sefa has an apron on when she gets it, her hair in disarray.

“Is Merlin in?” Arthur asks, tapping his foot on the floor. “If he isn't I can catch him--”

Sefa places her palm on his arm. “He's in the kitchen. I was baking him a cake.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, smiling, thinking this is a great moment to catch Merlin at. He will be happy for the cake and readier to listen to Arthur. “May I come in?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Sefa says, making space for him so he can enter. “I keep on behaving like a cock with you.”

Arthur feels heat chafe at his skin. “No, you're always lovely and down to earth with me. That's nice.”

“Thank you,” Sefa says, before leading him into the kitchen.

When Arthur enters, Merlin is bending over to check the oven, face illuminated by the lights coming from its depths. “I can't tell whether it's supposed to be done or no. Is it done, Sefa?”

“Um, Merlin,” Sefa says, trying to get his attention, “there's someone here for you.”

Merlin turns then, a smile splitting his face when he sees Arthur. “I thought it was some delivery person.”

“No, it's me,” Arthur says, bouncing on his soles. “Well, I left Cador and Pellinore downstairs but it's just me, here I mean.”

“I'll be out of your hair,” Sefa says, pointing backwards to the lunge.

“Wait,” Merlin says, sending a glare at the oven, “how will I know when this is ready?”

“Just switch it off in a couple of minutes,” Sefa shouts as she's already in the other room.

Merlin shrugs at the oven. “So, you're lucky. You get here in time for the sweets.”

“Yes, well in a way,” Arthur says, while searching for the perfect opener.

“Pellinore and Cador can have some too. Sefa chose this huge baking pan for the cake,” Merlin says, giving the baking cake a check. “So it's all good.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, stopping Merlin from rattling off the inception story of the cake. “There's a reason I'm here.”

Merlin tips his head to the side. “Other than seeing me?”

“Yes, other than seeing you,” Arthur says, his fingers curling inwards. He lets his nails sink into his palm so that the pinprick of pain will steady him enough to say what he's come to say. “Have you seen the papers today?”

“Other than the Journal of Medicine, you mean?” Merlin puts on padded kitchen gloves and extracts the cake from the oven just as the latter pings.

“Yeah.”

“Then the answer is no,” says Merlin, placing the pan on the counter-top.

“I suppose then that I'm breaking the news to you.” He takes a newspaper cutting from the wallet he had in his pocket. “You were splashed on page one.”

Merlin picks up the photo. “Shit,” he says, eyes widening. “I shall have to phone my bosses and tell them I wasn't acting crazy on break.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur says, “for now your name isn't out yet. But it will be.”

“Then I should probably place that call now and hope they don't think this is me trying to bring the organisation down,” Merlin says, chewing on his lip. He's gone three shades paler. “Our reputation is all we have, you know.”

“I know, Merlin,” Arthur says, as helpfully as he can.

“If people think that's what we do on our off time,” Merlin continues, explaining something Arthur already understands very well, “the donations will stop.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, taking back the picture Merlin has let fall. “I understand the horrors of PR.”

“How about you?” Merlin asks, bypassing the table to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. “Is the press being arseholish to you?”

“A little,” Arthur says, though he hasn't read every single headline about him. “But overall they've been kinder than last time. Maybe because they thought the interval between scandals was more proper.”

“I'm sorry this happened,” Merlin says, wincing. “If I can do anything at all, like, I don't know, deny it publicly or whatever you want me to do I promise I will.”

“There is something you can do,” Arthur says, seeing the opening he's been waiting for. He runs a sweaty hand up his shirt as he continues, “We could prove to the world that we're serious.”

“You want to admit to the relationship?” Merlin says, sounding surprised but tempering that with a bit of a smile. “I can. I mean I have no reason to keep it hushed or lie.”

“I actually would go a step further,” Arthur says, heart leaping and trying to climb out of his mouth. “I would ask you to--” He remembers that this is an important moment and that he shouldn't ruin it by blurting it all out without using his manners. Before finishing the sentence he goes to his knees and says, “marry me.”

“What?” Merlin says, stumbling back. “You mean with rings and stuff?”

“Yes,” Arthur nods, looking up. “The traditional way, well, more or less.”

Merlin blanches, his fingers curling around the edge of the table. “What about my job?”

Arthur hasn't reckoned with Merlin's job. After getting his father blessing, he hasn't given himself time to think past asking Merlin to marry him. “You can go back to it for a while, for as long as the engagement lasts.”

“And then I'd have to give it up, right?” Merlin asks, his tone none too pleased.

Arthur rises. His knees are hurting and discussing this is probably going to take a long time. “Yes, at least Pakistan. You'd be... you'd be a member of the royal family and for security reasons you couldn't...”

Merlin backs away then, his eyes getting misty. “Then,” he says, his voice husky, “I'll have to say no.”

Before popping the question, Arthur had given himself no time to think of Merlin's possible answers. He just charged in and asked . But now contemplating Merlin's true answer his heart feels like it has frozen over and is ready to crack with just one push in the right direction. “You could still work the charity angle.”

“I'm a doctor, Arthur,” Merlin says, his shoulders going up like the bristles of a porcupine. “I became one to help people.”

“You'd still be helping people,” Arthur says. His mother charities have helped thousands. His haven't done that badly either. “You'd be gathering funds.”

“That's not my speciality and that's not what I want to do.”

Arthur shouldn't be trying to compare the love Merlin has for his job to the love he reserves for Arthur, but doing so comes far too easily to him. The thought that choosing him should come first for Merlin springs to mind. “Not even for me?”

Merlin gasps and then cups his mouth as if to cover it. “That's not fair.”

“It is though,” Arthur says, letting out the nature of his hurt. “It is fair. I'm asking you to commit the way I did, waiting for you.”

“I thought you were waiting for me because you liked me!” Merlin says, making it a bit shouty. His voice is soon drowned by a song Sefa must have put on. “I thought--”

“What?” Arthur asks, throwing his hands up in the air. “That it's fun for me to see you slave away at a job that makes you borderline ill most of the time? That tires you out to the point you're always about to fold!”

“No, I thought that you respected my choice!” Merlin shouts again, vehement and resentful as Arthur has never seen him, not even when they didn't know each other. “I thought you understood but you don't, do you. It's all about you!”

The words are like a stake through his chest. “And it's not about your messianic complex instead? Your need to do something to prove that you're not a privileged git like me.”

“I never said you were.”

“You thought it all right!” Arthur spits out.

“Only for five minutes when I didn't know you!” Merlin says, turning around so he's facing away. His hands travel from his hips to his hair, slipping through tufts of it he then pulls at. “If you don't know that about me...”

“I don't know what to think anymore,” Arthur says, letting part of the hurt he feels spill out without vocalising anything that would be as pathetic as admitting that Merlin's refusal has stung more than anything else in his life. “I thought you loved me!”

“I do,” Merlin says, lips trembling, jacking a fist in his eye to dab at the wet tracks there. “But I can't give up my job either.”

“I can offer you no better choice, Merlin,” Arthur says, wanting Merlin to pick him, to choose him. He wants to hear the words and see the gesture that goes with. He needs to know he comes first with Merlin because in the past year Merlin's come to be first with Arthur.

“Then I can't make that choice.”

Bitterness stings. His mouth tastes foul and his skin buzzes with leftover adrenaline. “I can't force you to. But with the new situation I can't wait. I have to show the public I'm in a steady relationship.”

Merlin slowly spins around. “You mean with someone else.”

Arthur doesn't know what makes him say it, but something does. “Yes, I mean with someone else, Merlin.”

Merlin pushes air through his nostrils in something that comes short of a snort. His lips tremble as he says, “Get out.”

“Merlin.”

“No, get out,” Merlin says, low and rocky.

Arthur hesitates for a few moments, but he can read in Merlin's red face that he's not welcome any longer.

He leaves, just as Merlin asked.

 

*****

 

The ballet dancer floats across the stage. Lights follow her around, her feet tracing circles in the air. She moves with hushed grace before her gesture loses in perfection to acquire pathos as the swan dies.

The curtain goes down and the auditorium fills with applause.

Vivian leans close to him; she has tears in her eyes. “This was beautiful.”

Arthur was close to a yawn but valiantly resists yielding to it. “Yes, she was very good.”

Vivian's clapping becomes intense when the ballerina returns to the stage. “Thank you for taking me!”

Arthur nods politely at Vivian while he too claps at the stage. It wouldn't do to be seen not to appreciate the performance.

When they get out of the Royal Opera House, it's much the same. Arthur needs to keep up a cheerful front, especially when journalists approach him, asking questions about his satisfaction with the performance.

“It was certainly beautiful,” Arthur says, to stay on the safe side. As a member of the Royal Family he must be seen as a patron of the arts, even those he knows nothing about like Ballet. “It was a very... a very interesting show.”

“Perhaps your fiancée can tell us what she thought of it too.”

Vivian leans in and smiles and launches into a long winded comment about the performance that touches on the history of the piece, the ability of the performers to convey feeling, and her own enthusiasm about ballet.

The interviewer seems so charmed, the next question spills out of him, “Is there a date set for the wedding yet, Lady Vivian?”

Vivian sends him the first alarmed look of the evening. “Well, no,” she says. “We're enjoying the moment, at the... moment.”

“Well, thank you for talking to us, Lady Vivian.”

“It's certainly been a pleasure,” Vivian says, recovering all her charm.

Later in the car, Vivian puts a hand on his. “There's something wrong with you.”

“There's nothing wrong with me,” Arthur says, looking out the window.

“Arthur, you look as sad as a moose.”

That wrests a smile from Arthur. “Do moose look sad?”

“You know that's not the point,” Vivian says, batting her hand against his shoulder. “The point is,” she adds more seriously, “that I don't think we're working together, are we?”

“We are,” Arthur says, curling his hands on his thighs. “We never quarrel; we get along. You know how to deal with the press.”

“And you honestly think that makes good marriage material?” Vivian asks, catching his hand. “I'm sure daddy was overjoyed when you proposed, but are you sure this is what you want?”

“This is what I want,” Arthur says, squeezing Vivian's hand and meeting her eyes briefly before dropping his gaze.

 

**** 

 

Arthur finishes signing another cheque when Leon pops in, “Your highness, Mr Paterson for you.”

Arthur looks up from the pile of documents he's been studying. “Was he scheduled?”

“Of course,” Leon says, looking taken aback. “You must have forgotten.”

“What's he here for?” Arthur asks, capping and uncapping his pen.

“The renewal of donations for this year,” Leon says as though that was obvious. In fairness it probably is, to him at least.

“Oh, yes, of course. It's about DA.”

“Wh--” Leon starts but then his face resettles, gentling, and he doesn't ask the question he clearly wanted to. “Yes, I see, I'll-- I'll get Mr Paterson.”

Gaius hasn't changed one whit. He has the same air of ennui at the antics of the younger generation, the same rather bushy eyebrows and the same no-nonsense expression he had before. He's a bit slower moving – in this case sinking into his chair – but he's as abrupt with his openers as Arthur has come to learn he's always been. “We need new donations, Your Highness. The group is doing well but we need more money.”

Arthur should probably require documents supporting Gaius' request, numbers and statistics, but he can't quite bring himself to. “Of course,” he says instead. “The association has done well and it's certainly contributed to helping risk areas...”

“Indeed,” Gaius says, presenting him with a flash drive which, he promises, contains all the data Arthur may want to have a look at. “It illustrates perfectly the nature of our work and the areas in which we still need help. Highlighting why.”

“I'll pass it on to my team,” Arthur says, taking the flash-drive and depositing it in a drawer. “I'm sure they'll analyse your statistics thoroughly but you can still rest assured of our support.”

Gaius brow gets more furrows than are already there. “This was easier than I expected.”

“Your cause is good.”

Gaius nods. “I have no doubts as to that. I merely believed that not everyone is prone to see it and that I would have to put in more work to convince you to donate.”

“My visit to your camp did change my outlook,” Arthur says, looking out the window at the overcast London afternoon.. “That's not something I regret.”

“And neither do I, sir,” Gaius says, offering his hand for a shake that would put an end to their transaction.

Arthur doesn't take it. He turns the cap of his pen around and bites his lower lip. “How's Merlin? I mean, do you know?”

“Merlin?” Gaius asks, not as much surprised as wary. “Merlin is fine.”

There's something in the hurried way Gaius says this that makes Arthur not believe a word. “Is he still in Pakistan?”

“Yes, he still has to complete his next trimester there.”

Arthur doesn't know the specifics of the contract Merlin signed but he can tell there's more than Gaius is telling. “But--”

“Why would you think there is a but?” Gaius enquires, clearing his throat.

“I learnt to read social cues pretty early on,” says Arthur, not willing to go in the ins and outs of his upbringing, the way he was taught to interact with people on the basis of PR notions of propriety.

“Merlin is fine now,” Gaius says, his tone a form of surrender. “But he was taken ill for a while.”

Arthur starts. “How-- what?”

Gaius holds his palm up front. “Nothing serious. He was too tired and stressed out. He ran a fever for a few days. We worried because he might have caught something serious from a patient, but after we tested him we were reassured he was just overworked.”

“Is-- Are you sure?” Arthur says, his heart skipping a beat. In the space of a few seconds he thinks of the worst case scenarios, of all the illnesses Merlin could have been exposed to in the past. His ignorance in these matters makes him even more nervous about this. There's no way he's equipped to understand medicine. “I mean is it certain?”

“We are doctors, after all,” says Gaius, his eyebrow twitching nervously. “We would know. Especially after the range of tests we ran. Anyway, as you can probably understand, I can't talk about this. It's a private concern of Merlin's. I just mentioned it because you asked how he was and I didn't think lying was appropriate. If you want details you'll have to ask him.”

“I'm sorry if I imposed,” Arthur says, realising that he's pushed the boundaries of politeness. “It's just that...”

“The gossip made it to me as well, sir,” Gaius says a little grumpily, as if he's above mentioning this. “I can only say I understand why you asked. As Merlin's boss I will add that Merlin should hear of your concern from you and not second hand from me.”

Arthur's thought about lifting that receiver and placing a call to Merlin a million times. He's gone as far as dialling once but he didn't wait to be connected. He merely hung up. “Sometimes concern is the last thing one wants from an ex, isn't it?”

“That's up to you to gauge,” Gaius says, rising from his seat.

 

“Yes, yes, it is,” Arthur says, shaking Gaius' hand goodbye.

 

***** 

 

Arthur stands next to the Royal British Legion lieutenant with the poppy pin in hand, smiling for the cameras. He keeps the pose for as long as it takes the photographers to take snaps of him.

When he's done with the officers, he greets the Poppy Girls volunteers, shaking each of their hands in turn. He has a word and questions for each one of them. Some of the girls stammer, some blush while most recite a line or two they've clearly learnt by heart. When he turns, he hears one whisper, “When I grow up I want to marry him.”

Arthur can't help but think that she'd be very disappointed in him if she ever got there. He's no prince charming. He's not even that good of a man. Not too comfortable in his own skin, Arthur finishes with his duties for the day, a grimmer smile on his face.

He slips into the waiting car.

“So how was it?” Vivian asks, patting his shoulder. “Do your facial muscles hurt for smiling too much?”

“No,” Arthur says, turning to Vivian. “Doing my duty is keeping me on my toes.”

“Is there really any need to?” Vivian asks with a curious tilt of her head.

“Yes,” Arthur says, his jaw tightening a little with the confession he's about to make. “It's good to be working at something that gives me structure. I need it because I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she says, kissing his cheek, the touch of her lips soft. “I'm so sorry.”

Arthur exhales through his nose, wrapping his hand around Vivian's. “Vivian, I'm sorry too but I--” He swallows against the bad taste in his mouth. “I don't think I can continue with this engagement.”

“I knew that, Arthur,” Vivian says, not letting go of him. “Remember, I gave you an out first?”

“You're not...” Arthur tries to find the right words but can't quite. He wants to be sure Vivian is going to be fine. He wants to hear her say that she's got everything sorted and that he's not hurt her, but he supposes that that's very selfish. “What are you going to do?”

“Oh there's so much I can do,” Vivian says airily. “I can travel the world, be happy, find love. I'm not done and neither are you.”

“I--” Arthur wants Vivian to be right but he isn't sure he hasn't fucked up his chances at happiness. “I don't know about that. You've been splendid to the people around you. I've failed to do that, to listen.”

“Then listen this time,” she says, and there's a wise twinkle in her eyes Arthur thinks he should heed.

 

**** 

 

The night shines bright overhead. Arthur sticks his head out and looks at the stars, before sitting on the sill and dialling.

A sleepy voice answers after quite a few rings. “Yes,” it says.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, not sure how to follow up on that, just that he needs to get the greetings and the nervousness that comes with talking to Merlin for the first time in months out of the way.

“Arthur, is that you?” Merlin asks just as sleepily as before.

“Yes,” Arthur admits, “yes, it's me. Is it very late there?”

Merlin's breath comes heavy. “Yeah, it's—” Mattress springs wail. “It's 3 am.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “Oh my god I'm sorry, I forgot to take time zones into account.”

“Nah, don't be.” Merlin's voice sounds clearer now. He's perhaps waking up. “I'd have been up in an hour or so anyway.”

“God, Merlin, I don't know what--”

“Stop trying being so formal,” Merlin says, sounding tired but amused. “I know you can be much more laid back.”

“Yeah, I can be a wanker, can't I?”

“Undoubtedly,” Merlin says, but there's no sting to his words. “Though you aren't being one now.”

“I don't know what to say.” Arthur doesn't say he doesn't know why he called either but that's pretty much the truth. He just felt the urge to.

“Is it because you called off the engagement?”

“How do you know?”

“I walked into a newsagent's the other day and saw the British Papers,” Merlin says, as if explaining things to a child.

“Oh,” Arthur says. He should have known that Merlin isn't working twenty four seven though sometimes it looks like it. “Of course. And, no, I didn't call you because of that. Certainly not because I want you to pick up the pieces of my failed attempts at relationships.”

“I think I would,” Merlin says, fetching a sigh.

It's so simple but that phrase is like a kick in the gut. Merlin seems to still care. “I wanted to apologise,” Arthur says, the words ones he's chosen and weighed before. “For the way I acted towards you.”

“You should.” Merlin hums. “And I should apologise for not explaining how I felt.”

“I just lashed out,” Arthur says, thinking back to his words to Merlin. “In hindsight I know I did it because you refused me but it was petty and dishonourable. I'd like to say it wasn't like me. But I came up with that so there's no excuse.”

Merlin laughs like the laughter has been punched out of him. “When you apologise you go all out, don't you, Arthur?”

“I'd love to think so,” Arthur says, pushing his socked foot against the wooden frame of the window as he searches for a more comfortable perch. “I'd love to think that we could talk again too.”

“It's not going to be easy,” Merlin tells him and it sounds as though the admission is costing him a lot. “But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to hear your voice again. So yeah, I'd love to talk again too.”

“Probably not tonight though,” Arthur says, still guilty about having woken Merlin up. “You should get as much sleep as possible.”

“No, I told you,” Merlin says, evidently trying to make his voice perkier than before, “I should be up pretty soon anyway. Talk to me.”

They do talk without saying much. It's awkward at first and there are pauses and silences, hesitations that wouldn't have been there when they were together. But before Merlin needs to go and after Arthur's told him about his day, they hit on a moment when chatter flows easily and the can almost forget anything happened between them. Then Merlin has to go shower and start his day, so the conversation draws to a close, but his last words are, “Call me again, okay?”

 

*****

 

Over the next few months they exchange more phone calls though Arthur learns to ring at a more decent time of day for Merlin. During their calls they discuss lots of things, small events from their daily life that can be shared without the burden of canvassing momentous topics, like where they're going with this and what they feel about it. The past is just skimmed too.

Arthur feels connected again though, as though he's getting to know Merlin once more, from scratch, within a frame that allows them to control the amount intimacy that is each time involved. He knows he can't bypass what he said in the past or the way he behaved but he can try to build something new, even if it's made up of short conversations seemingly rooted in trivia.

The more they're on the phone the more some kind of ease slips back into their interactions, until one day in early December Merlin announces, “I'm going to go back, for a time at least, taking some down time.”

“You mean you're coming back to England?”

“Yes, for a while. I need some downtime,” Merlin says, with a little self deprecatory chuckle. “Doctor's orders. Gaius', that is.”

Arthur guesses that it's because Merlin's still not too well and probably overdue a holiday. “Would you... would you like to get together sometimes?”

“Yeah,” Merlin answers without even pausing to think about it. “Yeah, I'd love to.”

“Gwaine's hosting a charity rugby game on his property,” Arthur says, latching onto the first private space that comes to mind that won't make Merlin think Arthur is trying to get him alone. “Would you like tickets?”

“You need tickets to see Gwaine playing at home?” Merlin chuckles.

“Told you it's charity,” Arthur says, mirroring Merlin's light-hearted mirth. “The money's going to an organisation helping the homeless.”

“Okay then,” Merlin says cheerfully. “If it's a good cause, count on me.”

“I will then.”

Arthur starts ticking days off the calendar.

 

****

 

Mud flying everywhere, Gwaine touches the football down in the other's team goal area. The referee awards him five points, causing Gwaine, face coated in slime, to grin like a madman.

Elena shoots up from her seat, clapping madly. “Show them, love!”

Like Elena, Arthur claps too, but he stays rooted to his place on the bench, not quite feeling like jumping up to celebrate his friend's exploit.

When Elena sits back down, she says, “I'm sure he'll come.”

“Well, then you have a more positive outlook than I do,” Arthur says, scanning the benches for Merlin.

“That's because I'm an optimist,” Elena says with a goofy smile and shrug, “and because Gwaine told me that you were very sweet together at his stag party.”

“Did he now?” Arthur asks, arching his eyebrow. “That doesn't sound like Gwaine.”

“He did say disgustingly sweet,” Elena says only to be interrupted by an oooh from the crowd.

Both Arthur and Elena turn around at the same time to watch the action on the pitch. Emerging victorious from the scrum, Gwaine has just hooked the ball with his feet, when a huge player from the opposing team tackles him to the ground, the curve of his body entirely covering Gwaine's.

Gwaine gives a sharp cry and that's when the referee intervenes.

Arthur and Elena jump to their feet. They both leap over benches to try and get to Gwaine, who's now rolling on the grass, grabbing his knee.

At the same time a man comes running over the pitch, dropping a messenger bag at its edges. Arthur's heart is in his throat because Gwaine looks like he's really in pain, so it's only belatedly that he realises that the man running over to Gwaine is, in fact, Merlin.

“I'm a doctor,” Merlin says, as he makes his way over to Gwaine.

The player that downed Gwaine steps aside as Merlin sinks in the grass by Gwaine's side.

Gwaine is curled in on himself, grimacing and moaning in pain, his knee in his hands.

Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Let me have a look, all right?”

Gwaine bites his lip but, after having breathed through his nose, he nods. “Yeah,” he says tightly. “Go ahead.”

Arthur and Elena stand on the sidelines as Merlin examines Gwaine. At first he applies pressure from his palm by placing it right hand above Gwaine's knee. Arthur doesn't know what Merlin's learning from that; he just watches in awed silence and with a bit of trepidation. Merlin pokes at Gwaine's knee cap, pressing down with the fingers of his other hand. “I think there's no effusion,” he says, extending the knee and stroking the lateral side of the joint. “And it's obviously not broken.” Merlin tests Gwaine's range of motion. “I think his knee is not stable though.”

“Christ,” Gwaine says.

Elena steps forward. “Is that bad?”

“It could be some kind of ligament trauma,” Merlin says, letting go of Gwaine's knee. “But to be a hundred percent you'll need to get it MRI'd.”

“So what do we do?” Elena asks, sinking to her knees next to Merlin.

Merlin sighs. “We can either call an ambulance or drive him to the hospital ourselves.”

“No ambulance,” Gwaine says, through gritted teeth. “We'll go by car.”

“I'll get it.” Elena jumps up, running off the pitch.

Merlin looks to Arthur then, giving him an uneasy smile. “Help me walk him to it?” Merlin asks him.

“Of course,” Arthur says, kneeling by Gwaine's side and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hang in there, mate.”

Together he and Merlin walk a hobbling, pale Gwaine to the car Elena's got idling on the drive. Elena leans over and opens the car door. Arthur eases Gwaine in the seat. “There you go,” he says while Gwaine tries to snark back at him. “No need to play nurse, princess, unless it's a kinky game.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur says, “it's a very kinky game called shut up or I'll hit you.”

“No fair,” Gwaine says before hissing the moment his foot hits the mat.

“I think we should get you to hospital, yeah?” Merlin says, closing the passenger door. He spends a second more with Arthur to say, “I really would have loved to talk to you.”

Arthur grabs him by the arm. “I won't go back to London. I'll wait here for news.”

Merlin's eyes go bigger but he nods. “Okay, all right, see you later then.”

Then Merlin ducks into the back of the car, which speeds off right after.

Night falls and it's only hours later that Merlin returns, sans Elena and Gwaine. He finds Arthur in the library, nursing a drink. The moment Merlin enters Arthur stands, putting down the glass. “How's Gwaine?”

Merlin smiles weakly. “Torn MCL. They're keeping him overnight to help with the immobilisation.”

Arthur feels his face fall. “I'd hoped it would be just some bruising.”

Merlin winces, shifting from foot to foot. “Er, no, it's a bit worse than that, but the prognosis is entirely positive.”

“How long?”

“Four weeks,” Merlin says, eyeing Arthur's glass with interest. “It's a grade two injury. He'll need lots of rest.”

Arthur pours Merlin a glass of the same brandy he was drinking and walks over to him, handing him the drink. “He won't like it.”

Merlin throws down his drink. “He's not liking it already. That's why Elena stayed over. To make sure he wouldn't--” He waves a hand about – “You know, sign himself out.”

“He would,” Arthur agrees with a little chuckle. He probably shouldn't laugh, but he's relieved Gwaine won't need to have surgery and he guesses Gwaine's personality will always prompt that reaction in him. “I'm sure he would hop all the way out to go party.”

“If he could,” Merlin says. With a wink he adds, “But they knocked him out with pain killers. When I left he was snoring.”

Arthur smiles at the mental picture evoked. Then he sobers a bit. “I'm sorry you didn't get to relax either. You were just meant to watch a stupid rugby match and were instead compelled to sweep in and do some more work.”

“Hey,” Merlin tells him, hefting his shoulders. “Gwaine's my friend and I love my job.”

Arthur sinks back into the armchair he left vacant when Merlin entered. “I have reason to know that.”

Merlin toys with his glass, the knuckles of one hand rapping down its side. “You were never less important than my career.”

“You dumped me for your job,” Arthur points out, immediately appalled that he has come out and said that.

Merlin paces to the window, the back, mostly empty glass still in hand. “I didn't dump you for my job. I said no to having to give it up. And you couldn't give me an out on that.”

“If you married me and went,” Arthur says, a stab of longing going through him at the mere thought of taking up a conversation entailing a future he no longer has in his sights, “I couldn't have ensured your protection.”

“I know that,” Merlin says. “I know I would have been in the eye of the storm.”

“And you don't like that.”

“It wouldn't have helped with my job,” Merlin says low and thoughtful, “it would have undermined a serious organisation like DA by way of gossip, but I would have liked to be married to you.”

Arthur closes his eyes to focus on staying calm, reining in the runaway beat of his heart. “I would have liked that too.”

Merlin lowers his eyes, his lashes coming down. “Yeah, it's... I don't want to be angry with you. I understand why you acted the way you did.”

“Do you?” Arthur asks, feeling he has to press this one point if no other. “Because I don't. I didn't want to be with someone else. Vivian or anyone. I didn't need to be.”

“I thought--”

“That I had to marry someone I didn't want?” Arthur asks, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “No, my father hadn't said anything about that. I could've waited. I wanted to hurt you.”

Merlin nods, humming softly. “You did. You did hurt me.”

“I know,” Arthur says, his nostrils flaring. “The worst thing is that hurting you is like hurting myself.”

“Mmm,” Merlin says, tapping his fingers against the glass.

“And I don't want to,” Arthur says. “I don't want to anymore.”

Merlin lifts his eyes to his. “Neither do I.”

“Can we--” Arthur hesitates over asking, knowing full well he has no place to anymore. “Can we be friends?”

“Yes, yes we can, Arthur,” Merlin says, walking over to him, putting down his snifter to place his hand on Arthur's shoulder. He hunches by the side of Arthur's armchair. “I haven't stopped, you know, loving you. And if it's got to be like that to work, then yes, I want to be your friend.”

 

****

 

Gwaine is stretched on his bed, an ice pack on his knee. “So do I get no kisses?” he asks, tilting his face up.

Elena smacks a kiss on Gwaine's lips. “Happy now?”

“I'll be happier if Arthur gets me that pillow over there and if Merlin tells me I can start walking around again.”

“A few more days,” Merlin tells Gwaine, cautionary.

Arthur just huffs but goes to retrieve the pillow Gwaine wants.

“Now you should rest some more,” Merlin says, smiling at Gwaine the way that patient doctors do when faced with restless charges. “You've had a stressful week.”

Gwaine pouts. “I feel like I've just lived through the most boring week of my life!”

“Boring is good,” Merlin says, patting Gwaine's foot.

“You're only saying that because you want to be alone with Arthur,” Gwaine proclaims, rather loudly. Arthur only forgives him because he's still somewhat high on pain killers.

“What, no!” Merlin says, searching the room to catch Arthur's eyes. “It's not like that!”

“No worries,” Gwaine continues, not caring what hole he's digging Arthur in, “Arthur only came visiting because he heard you'd be checking up on me.”

Correction, Arthur's not forgiving him this one. “That'll teach me to come and see how you're doing.”

“You wouldn't abandon a bed-ridden mate, would you, Princess?”

“Let Arthur be, Gwaine,” Elena says, sitting on the bed next to her husband, her hand on his bare chest. “He was so nice as to come it wouldn't do to throw that in his face.”

“You're right as always,” Gwaine says, kissing Elena.

After that Gwaine lets Arthur be. Arthur has a feeling it's only for now.

Later, when Gwaine's fallen to snoring and Elena has gone riding, Arthur and Merlin take a walk in the park surrounding Gwaine's estate. All leaves have fallen from those trees that aren't evergreens and the air has such a bite to it – especially out here in the countryside – that Arthur's cheeks are freezing into position.

“It's kind of beautiful here,” Merlin says, kicking at a mound of dried up leaves. “Solemn, but beautiful.”

“Gwaine would probably say it was boring,” Arthur says, sneaking his gloves out of his pockets and putting them on.

“Yeah too many trees, too much quiet,” Merlin says, ambling along at the same pace as Arthur. “I bet he'd say that.”

“He would.”

“But when I think of this place I think of that one time we had sex on the grass.” Merlin blushes. “Remember that? It was on your birthday?”

Arthur cheeks go hot; it makes for an odd sensation against the bite of the wind. “I remember that.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, shaking his head with a smile. “Yeah, I--”

It's the smile that does it, the knowledge that Merlin looks back on that time with affection. Arthur stops, grabs Merlin by the arm and fits their mouths together.

The angle is odd but the kiss as sweet as any he remembers, perhaps more because he's missed Merlin so much he was aching for him. As Merlin's lips part against his, Arthur's eyes slide shut, the slide of tongue on tongue lighting tingles up his spine.

As always Merlin steals his breath, fogging up his thought processes till all he's capable of doing is rubbing their tongues together until they've got no air. “Tell me we're seeing each other again?” Arthur asks against Merlin's lips.

Merlin's mouth curves into a smile when he says, “I promised you something once. I'm keeping that promise.”

***** 

The year's end finds them all on the lawn of Gwaine's house, the ancient Jacobean structure lit up by torches that have been stuck into the ground, their shadows chasing ghosts along the masonry. 

They're all huddled together, wrapped in layers made up of coats and scarves, watching the frosty sky, the stars twinkling brightly up ahead.

“It's one minute to midnight,” Elena shouts, holding up her champagne glass.

Her other guests do the same, Gwaine running to get to the fireworks station.

Forty seconds to midnight, Elena says, tapping her digital wristwatch.

Champagne bottles make the rounds.

“Thirty,” Elena chants, a chorus of voices joining her for the countdown.

Arthur feels the thrill of the others' excitement, the buzz of expectation that comes with thinking of new beginnings, but can't help missing Merlin, feeling as if a chunk of his heart was gone with him.

But then motion catches Arthur's eye as a figure steps out from the French doors, converging briefly with Gwaine's butler before nodding thanks and following the man's pointed finger out towards the huddled revellers. 

At first Arthur can't tell who it is; the bright lights in the garden are garish enough to throw the bulk of the building behind in shadow. It's the person's gait that gives the identity of the new arrival away; that slighly lolloping pace belongs to none other than Merlin's.

Arthur's heart starts again, as if it's never beaten properly before.

To the sound of the countdown, Merlin walks over to him. At minus fifteen, he grabs Arthur by his scarf, burying red-knuckled fingers in the wool. “I've thought of a compromise with my job. I want you back. So if 

you by any chance do too, I'm going to ask you to--”

Arthur kisses Merlin on the lips, soft and then deep.

Midnight strikes and fireworks of all colours brighten the sky.

 

The End


End file.
